


Good Men Down

by RunawayMarbles



Series: Not Cover Art [4]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Pirate, F/F, F/M, Golden Age of Piracy, M/M, Medium level angst, Minor Character Death, POV Multiple, POV Outsider, Slow Burn, like really slow for some pairings, moderate pining, sort of a Black Sails AU but you don't have to have seen Black Sails
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-03-02 13:39:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13319322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunawayMarbles/pseuds/RunawayMarbles
Summary: 1716 - Pirate Captain Steve Rogers of theAvengerjoins forces with Captain Lehnsherr of theHellfireto hunt a Hydra Company fleet. Later, they'll both claim it all went exactly to plan.





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has been about eight months in the making, so many thanks to all my friends who have put up with my random and nonsensical questions-- especially lacecat, for beta reading and encouragement. (And thanks/no thanks to Alice, for enabling this project in the first place.)

When the ship approaching the _Bugle_ raises a black flag, midshipman Peter Parker sends God a fervent prayer of thanks.  

Captain Jameson curses the devil.

“Pirates!” a man shouts from the rigging, as though the other ship isn’t in easy eyesight now, close enough to see the men on deck— as though anyone could have missed it. “Pirates!”

Peter squints at the  banner, but it’s snapping back and forth, only allowing him a brief flash of the design: just a skull, he thinks, not a full anatomy, with something else above it. 

“It’s Captain Richards,” guesses Tim.

“Nah,” says John. “Rogers.”

Tim peers forwards, leaning over the rail like that will make it easier to see. “Bet you half my dinner it’s Richards.”

Peter would as soon eat Tim’s shit as his dinner: it would taste about the same. But if he plays this right, he won’t have to eat another meal on board the _Bugle_ ever again. Or sleep in the smelly berth he shares with assholes, or get Thompson’s elbow in his gut, or clean up vomit and shit while vomiting and shitting himself. 

The pirate ship is closer now.

There’s nothing the _Bugle_ can do. They can’t outrun her— they’d already stopped, had been planning to take on water until the ship came from around the windward side of the island. Their only choice now is whether they fight or whether they hand over the cargo. And Peter doesn’t want to die today.

Also—

“I think that was a star,” he says. “On the flag. Rogers.”

“Bet it’s Richards,” says Thompson, because clearly if they all get killed he wants his last action to be being a bastard. Come to think of it, he might actually _be_ a bastard, but Peter isn’t going to say anything.

“Will all of you shut up!” Captain Jameson shouts.

For a second, the men go quiet.

There’s no silence at sea. Even in a calm, there’s the groaning of the ship, the footsteps of the men, the creaking of the rigging. The sound of men's voices.  

God, but he hates this ship.

“Captain,” First Mate Morton says. “Orders?”

Jameson stands at the bow, a spyglass in one hand and the other making a fist. He turns back to the crew, and Peter looks away: he doesn’t want to give any accidental look of determination, some sign that he’s willing to defend the shit they have on here.

 _“One pirate, a Captain Lehnsherr, once woolded a captain who refused to hand over his ship,”_ Old Ben had told Peter once. _“You know what woolding is, son?”_

Peter had.

“Strike the colors,” Jameson says, and no one is brave enough to let out a sigh of relief.

A man hauls down their flag, and the pirate ship is just close enough now for Peter to hear a faint cheer.

They wait.

Entire lifetimes have been shorter than their wait.

It’s not even a doom that’s coming for them: the _Bugle_ is insured, her cargo is insured. It’s Jameson’s pride rather than his pockets that is on the line, and Peter has been waiting for his captain’s fall for a long time now. When he lands, Peter is going to climb over him and into freedom.

No matter what.

The pirate is closer, now, and Peter is finally sure of the flag.

“Skull and a star,” he says. “Rogers. The _Avenger._ ”

Thompson shoves him.

“Shit,” Tim says. Then, hopefully, “we won’t know till they announce, right?” he looks to Peter. “Which one is better?”

“Neither of them are better,” Peter says, just loud enough for Jameson to hear without thinking it’s meant for his ears. “They’re both pirates.” He digs his fingers into the wooden rail. Then, in a lower voice, “Richards. He doesn’t— Old Ben used to say that Richards has a smaller crew. Less likely to start a fight. But Rogers is more likely to leave us enough food to survive.” That last bit is not going to be  his problem, but it’s not like he wants the others to starve.

“Oh,” Tim says.

There’s enough time for Jesus to come back to earth and die again before the other ship drifts in to meet them. It’s nearly close enough to touch when it finally stops, admidship: the hulls scrape against each other, and Peter can see individual splinters in the _Avenger’s_ rail. The gap is only a few feet, and the pirates’ boarding party is lined up, preparing to go over the side. Peter can’t tell which, if any, is Rogers.

They’re right in front of him, and it would probably be smart to get the hell out of their way. Peter backs up, nearly bumping into Thompson, who kicks at his ankle.

One breath, then—

The first pirate to make the jump is a tall black man. He’s got short-cropped hair and a strut that Peter has never seen on anyone who wasn't an officer. Two men drop down beside him. One is oddly mousy-looking, and the other has curly red hair down to his—

No, _her_ shoulders.

She’s dressed like the men, in grey clothes that look like they were black once. Her breeches are a little longer, going down to her ankles instead of ending below her knees. Maybe she couldn’t find any that fit her. Maybe it’s just for modesty. Peter can’t imagine a woman going around a ship full of men with her legs out like that, but then, she’s the first woman he’s seen on a ship since the _Bugle_ was stuck ferrying Admiral Talbot’s wife and son around.

God, that had been a shit time.

A man wearing a bizarre combination of red and purple is the next to climb aboard, and then another with more muscles than should really fit on a human body.

The pirates back on the ship all brandish pistols and muskets, but don’t make a move.

Peter breathes carefully through his nose, and tries to see everything without catching anyone’s eye.

“Sam Wilson,” the black man introduces himself. “Quartermaster of the _Avenger,_ and Captain Rogers. Which of you is Captain?”

For a full three seconds, no one says anything.

“Captain Jonah Jameson,” their captain answers at last. “This is the _Bugle_.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Wilson says with more than a shade of mockery. “The manifest, if you please.”

Captain Jameson looks between Wilson and the woman, and then past at the crew of the _Avenger,_ and at their weapons. Then back to the woman. Back at his own crew, all of whom have turned their interests to the sky, the deck, the sea.

If Jameson is thinking what it looks like he’s thinking, Peter is going to stab the captain himself. They’d _have_ to let him onto the _Avenger_ after that.

“Before the wind dies,” Wilson says.

Jameson opens his mouth, and there’s a knife at his throat.

“It was a simple request.” Peter hadn’t even seen the woman move, but she’s got an arm around Jameson’s neck now, speaking directly into his ear.

Morton steps forward,  and Wilson points a pistol at his head.

“We’ve just got flour,” Morton says. “And a little indigo. Everything is stored in the hold. One of my men will show you.”

“And that’s everything?” Wilson asks.

Jameson nods.

“Duquesne, Williams, follow their man to the hold. Romanoff, captain’s cabin.” Now Peter does try and catch Morton’s eye— if he can talk to any of the pirates alone, maybe— but Morton points to Tim, and then jerks his thumb towards the stairs, and Tim looks like he’s about to puke. The muscled man follows him first, weapons out and obvious. The red and purple one is half a step behind.

The woman shoves Jameson hard enough that he stumbles before she disappears belowdecks. 

A swell of voices from the pirate ship makes Peter look— there’s a man coming, the pirates parting to let him through. He doesn’t jump from one ship to another as much as just take a step.  He’s— huge. Blond and broad shouldered and Peter tries not to gape, because he’s never seen a sailor look that goddamn healthy before.

He’s so distracted it takes a second to realize that there’s a bird on the man’s shoulder. A parrot, Peter thinks. Green with red wings. How do they keep a bird alive on the ship?

“Captain,” Wilson says.

“Tits,” says the parrot, hopping over to Wilson. 

Rogers looks around.

When Peter had pictured him, he’d imagined him like he’d imagined every pirate: black hair, black beard, maybe a few more pistols. But Rogers is— blond, and undecorated. And yet.

 _“Rogers is a crafty one,”_ Old Ben had said. _“A couple years back, he got pinned down by the_ Guardacosta, _near St. Augustine. Beach behind him, cliffs on either side, the way blocked by two Spanish ships. He’d been surprised taking on water, see. Rogers, he puts up a good fight, but he’s got no option but to surrender. So he strikes. But while he does that, he sends his men over the side in two groups. Unnoticed they go, swim to, climb up the Spanish ship, load their guns—”_

 _“The water would have ruined the paper cartridges,”_ Peter had said. _“How did they use their guns if they were just in the water?”_

_“They climbed with their cutlasses in their teeth—”_

_“That would have broken their teeth off.”_

_“Fuck you, kid. They sent one of their longboats as a fireboat. The Spanish thinks that’s their move. Then the boarders sneak on,_ somehow, _you_ _shit, and cut the captains’ throats. The crew is all turned around, looking at the pirate ship. They don’t even notice until the pirates set off their gunpowder, jumping overboard and swimming like hell.   And then all Rogers had to do was wait for the burning to stop and sail through the rubble.”_

A man so terrifying as to pull this off, and he’s standing right in front of Peter. Close enough that Peter can hear him when he turns to Wilson, mutters—

“I told you to buy a cage for the damn bird.”

“Redwing doesn’t like cages,” Wilson hisses back.

“Well she don’t like being left behind. You take her with you next time.”

“She doesn’t have to listen to me. She didn’t sign the articles.”

“For fuck’s—”

“Fuck!” The parrot says.

Peter jumps, and that movement is enough to catch the men’s attention— they both turn to him, and whatever nerve Peter had managed to work up jumps overboard and drowns under their gazes.

“Redwing here is a real lady, as you can see,” Wilson says. To him. Peter blinks.

“What,” he manages. “What does she eat?” She’s a bird, birds eat bugs, but he can’t really see this parrot picking at some maggoty bread.

“Midshipmen.”

Peter flinches again. Wilson winks.

If this is his chance, he doesn’t have time to use it, because there are footsteps behind them. The woman is walking back towards them, a bag held aloft.

The deck isn’t big enough for her to have a clear path, so she weaves around terrified, awed sailors. Giving Jameson a long time to sweat before she drops the bag at his feet.

“Hold him.”

Captain Rogers obeys her, grabbing both of Jameson’s elbows.  

“It was in the captain’s cabin,” she says. “Bottom drawer of his desk.”

Wilson steps around them to pick up the bag, shaking it: the clink of coins turns all eyes their way. He sticks a hand in, slow as anything, and pulls one out.

“English pound." He pulls out a second one, and then rattles the bag again, lets every man imagine just how much money is in there.

Peter sure is.

Rogers shoves Jameson into Thompson. Thompson’s eyes are still on the bag, and he steps out of the way, letting their captain hit the deck.

“Did you tell the crew their wages were delayed?” Rogers asks. “Did you tell them you could only pay them in Jamaican pounds?” The men shift, mutter, but Rogers doesn’t look away from the captain.

“Shit,” says the parrot, leaning forward to peck at the coins Wilson is still holding.

“Did you tell them they’d have to work for another few months, that they couldn’t feed their families just yet, that you were terribly sorry?”

Even Morton doesn’t seem inclined to speak up in Jameson’s defense.

The boat creaks. 

“My captain asked you a question,” Wilson says. Jameson has probably never been spoken to like that, much less by someone who looks like Wilson, but his face twists and it’s done.

Peter looks from  him to the bag. The bag. He could have been— he could have been paid and out of here weeks ago, months ago. It would have taken less than a pound for him to flee the docks.

“He told us our pay would be at the next port.” It takes a second for Peter to realize he is the one that spoke, and he addresses his words to the parrot. It seems safer than looking Wilson or Rogers in the eye.  “He said the ship with the money was delayed and we couldn’t wait for it.”

“Huh.”

If Peter had been looked at with the amount of disgust Rogers is leveling at Jameson right now, he’d probably shrivel up and die. And as for the crew of the _Bugle_ — well, it’s not like they didn’t suspect. It’s not like there was anything they could do about it.

Peter has long since given up on going home.

“Admit it,” Rogers says.

“I don’t know where she found that bag,” Jameson spits, too late. He tries to stand up with dignity. He fails, and Peter thinks it’s because the woman tripped him, but it’s hard to be sure. He lands on his ass again. “Probably had it on her that whole time. This is some sort of trick.”

It’s too big a bag to stuff down even unfashionably long breeches.

Rogers crouches so that he and Jameson are eye to eye. It looks like a conciliatory gesture, but there’s no kindness in it. It’s not hard to imagine him burning the Spanish alive.

“Admit it,” he says, “and I may be inclined to show you mercy.”

There’s no silence at sea, but it’s like everyone is holding their breaths all at once. Even Thompson. Even the crew. Even the seabirds, zig zagging overhead, reminding Peter again how close they were to land.

Jameson’s pride breaks against Rogers’s disappointed glare.

“I did,” he says. “I was told—”

“Apologize.”

“Everyone does—”

“Apologize,” Rogers says again. “Not to me, to your men. And do it fast. Natasha hasn’t killed anyone in near a month, and she gets anxious.”

Jameson looks at the woman, and something on his face is less apologetic than she was clearly hoping for, because she twirls a knife.

“I’m sorry,” Jameson mumbles. “It was… wrong.”

Peter really, really, really wants to be a pirate.

“Good job.” Rogers pats Jameson on the back. “Unfortunately, it’s not my mercy you need to be worried about. It’s theirs.” He stands. “We’ve all been here,” he says. “At the mercy of a captain who steals our wages, our food, our very _lives._ We offer something better. If you have what it takes to sail under death’s head, we will welcome you.”

This is Peter’s moment.

He leans forward, but his legs don’t move.

 _Go,_ he tells himself. Leans forward again.

This is it—

He takes a step.

There’s nowhere to go, really, he’s already right next to them, so after an awkward second he raises his hand.

Captain Rogers looks at him.

It’s a look that makes Peter feel like he’s been left wanting, but it’s not like they specified who they were looking for. They asked who has what it takes, and Peter does. This is his out. Out of here, away from Jameson, away from—

Thompson steps forward too.

 _Are you fucking kidding me?_ Peter wants to scream. But he doesn’t, because it’s not just Rogers looking at him now, it’s everyone. He doesn’t think he’s had that many eyes on him in his life, and it makes him kind of itchy.

“He was your captain,” Rogers says. “What do you think his punishment should be?”

Against his better judgment, Peter looks at Thompson. Then at Jameson. He wants to hide. He wants to revel in it. He wants—

“A few months ago,” Peter says, “Jameson had an old man whipped, just for telling stories. He died because of it.” He’s imagined saying this to Jameson so many times. He’s imagined this moment. He’s imagined smearing his captain’s face in Old Ben’s blood and he’s imagined strangling him with a whip.

He’s imagined Jameson looking at him, just like he is now: afraid.

He wants to ask if he remembers Ben’s name.

He doesn’t really want to know the answer.

“You want us to whip him to death?” Wilson doesn’t look thrilled by the proposal, but he doesn’t look like he would say no. But Peter doesn’t think he can stomach the sight of another whipping. Much less a death.

“No,” he says. “No, I—”

“Make him run the gauntlet!” shouts one of the pirates back on the other ship. “Thieving shit.”

“A sweat!” says another. “It’s been ages—”

Jameson is already sweating.

“Aw, be quiet, Dunphy. Sweats take forever—”

Is a sweat the one where they all take turns poking the captain with sharp objects, or the one where they whack him with the cat-o-nine-tails? Is that different than a whipping? Ben hadn’t told him.

“We could tie him to the mast and watch him piss himself,” Thompson says.

Peter snorts.

“Piss,” the parrot says.

Wilson’s lip twitches.

“All right,” he says, and there’s general laughter. “He can watch us supervise the transfer of his cargo, how about that?”

Another drop of sweat drips off of Jameson’s nose. Wilson jingles the bag of money. Peter digs his fingernails into his palm. He doesn’t look at Tim, or John, or any of the rest of the  _Bugle_ crew.

 

 

* * *

 

From the outside, the _Avenger_ doesn’t look that much different from any other ship.

She’s a sloop of war, clearly stolen from someone or another: Peter would guess the Navy, but he’s not going to ask, not yet. She's got fore-and-aft and square sails both, two masts, great guns lining the deck and a swivel on the bow and stern.

Inside, though, it’s like no ship he’s ever seen. Below deck on the first level there are no walls or cabins, no berths or rows. Just a huge room slung with hammocks in a haphazard mess.  Some men seem to be forgoing them altogether: Peter watches as one drops his cutlass, gently lays down his pistol, and then sprawls against the side of the ship. Not ten seconds go by before he starts snoring.

No one reprimands him, although one man does point and snicker.

And it’s _crowded._ Easily three times more men than the _Bugle,_ more men than they could possibly need to crew the ship. To load the cargo.

“Out of the way!”

Wilson grabs Peter’s arm and yanks him to the side as three men come through, bearing between them a barrel of the _Bugle’s_ flour.

“Good thing he missed the goods,” one of them says as they pass. “Quite a bladder, your captain.”

“He’s not our captain,” Peter says.

Jameson had held it for long enough that a couple of the pirates had started taunting him, trying to get him to wet himself with fear. It hadn’t worked, but the payoff in the end, Peter felt, had been worth it.

It sure had been a lot of piss.

“The hold is below us,” Wilson says. “Food is twice a day, we all take turns helping. Gets served in here, you can eat wherever you want as long as it’s not in anybody’s way.”

Thompson has been uncharacteristically quiet, but Peter figures he’s just trying to think of a way to make this new experience miserable.

“I’m good at climbing,” Peter says. “I was in the rigging. Sir.”

Wilson glances back at him as he leads them further into the ship. “No one is ‘sir’ here,” he says. “Call me Sam. Or Wilson, but there’s another Wilson who’s around sometimes, and he’s a real asshole.”

One of the men with the barrel turns around, causing his companions to swear at him.

“Wade’s dead, I heard,” he calls.

“I’ll believe it when I see his bloated corpse and not a second before,” says another. “Jesus, Barton, pick up your fucking end.”

“He’s not dead.” Sam’s word seems to settle the matter. “He shipped out with the _New Warrior_. Only group sucker enough to take him this time. That’s Pym, Lang and Barton.” He points to each of the three men in turn. Pym, the old one. Barton, the one who dropped his side of the barrel. “Our carpenter, carpenter’s mate, and sharpshooter. Don’t shake Lang’s hand, he uses it to wipe his ass.”

“Go fuck a whale, Wilson,” Lang says.

Peter waits for Lang to be reprimanded. Instead, Sam punches him in the shoulder, and continues on. “Speaking of, shithole’s back there. You can piss there or you can piss over the side. Do _not_ piss off the rigging. We gotta get you to sign the articles— lists the rules, and the shares. You get to vote after you help take the first prize. Can you read?”

Thompson and Peter look at each other, and Peter can’t help but imagine getting thrown overboard— although it’s not like these people can read either, probably—

“I can write my name,” Peter says. What he can actually do is write two Ps, and recognize a few letters, but nobody has ever asked for more from him.

“I can do that also,” Thompson says, never to be outdone.

“Good enough.”

There’s a chest at one end of the room. When Sam opens it, Peter has to do his best not to gape. He doesn’t think he’s seen that much money in his whole life, no wonder people pirate, no wonder—

“Don’t get too excited, this is split out amongst the crew. Each man has a right to about… five pounds. I keep track.” He points to a log book tucked into the corner. “Keep it safe while we’re at sea, divvy it out when we’re on land. More important for you, here’s the articles.” He tugs some worn-looking pages out of the book and unfolds them. Even if Peter could read, he thinks he’d have trouble: there isn’t really enough light down here to see what it says, and the page has been edited by many different hands, with parts crossed out or added with little arrows.

“Articles,” Sam says. “Captain’s word is law only when fighting, chasing, or being chased. Everything besides that is put to a vote. Each crewman gets a share of the spoils after we take out injuries and ship repair. Strange is our doctor.”

“Strange?”

“Yeah, that’s his name. Or so he says. Tall man, face like a shrunken grape, can’t miss him.” Sam taps the paper. “Then there’s injury compensation for loss of limb or eye. After that, Captain gets one and a half shares. Quartermaster, carpenter, boatswain, and doctor all get one and a quarter. You want to fight with someone, you wait until we’re on land. No open flames below deck. You steal from a prize or keep secrets from the crew, crew votes on your punishment. These are secrets that _matter_ to the rest of us, mind, not,” and here he raises his voice, “shit we’d rather not know!”

“Can’t hear you!” Lang hollers. “I’m fucking a whale!”

The bottom of the paper is covered in names. Peter does recognize one set of letters— B E N. It can’t be the same Ben whose skeleton is being picked clean by fish, but Peter can’t help think, _maybe._ Ben’s stories had led him here, one way or another, and Ben’s death had let him take that last step. Maybe Peter had done a disservice, but not supporting a more painful torture of his killer. Maybe he’s shamed him.

He’ll get a better stomach for violence, he’s sure.

At the end of this path is a hangman, but he’ll be free on the way there.

Peter signs his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \----
> 
> A note about language: I tried not to use too many anachronistic words, but I'm taking substantial liberties, especially with swearing-- "damned" doesn't really pack the same punch today as it did then, and I wasn't going to be able to take myself seriously if they ran around calling each other "dogs". We're never going to know exactly how pirates swore, since it was a mix of languages they never wrote down, so I'm sticking to the spirit more than the letter. (Alas, I couldn't justify "motherfucker," since that's very much a 20th century invention.) 
> 
> A note about women: Were there this many women on pirate ships? Probably not. Do I care? No. 
> 
> A note about slavery: Pirates in the 17th and 18th century were slavers. There's no way to get around this. Sometimes they might take on a few former slaves as crew (usually the Africans who spoke English) and sometimes they hemmed and hawed, but at the end of the day, they sold a lot of people. But I really did not want to write about these characters-- especially Fury, Sam, and Erik-- as slavers, for obvious reasons.
> 
> A note about white saviors: That's always a pretty fine line to walk with Captain America. I've given him a stack of arguably-selfish motivations for doing what he does, in an attempt to balance that. 
> 
> A note about research: I've read so many books on pirates. If anyone's interested, I highly recommend _The Sea-Rover's Practice_ by Bennerson Little and _The Republic of Pirates_ by Colin Woodard. I'm currently working on _Pirate Women_ by Laura Sook Duncombe, so... follow for nerdy revelations.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve looks for allies. Sam makes a discovery. Natasha gets into a fight, and the crew drinks a lot.

Steve loves the sea, the same way he loves God: as something to be feared, something to be in awe of, something that can giveth and taketh away with a change in winds. He will never expect anything from the sea, and he won’t test her if he doesn’t have to.

Which means: they aren’t leaving.

Not with the clouds rolling in like this, not with the increasing rain. Steve supposes they could have gotten underway sooner, had they not lingered on the prize ship— but the men had been equally invested in watching that captain piss and making sure he didn’t have any other stashes of money lying about.

If they’d left, they’d probably have just gotten stuck in the storm on open waters anyway.

They can’t go bunk down on shore— they’d get wetter setting up a tent than they will just staying in their hammocks. The crew will just have to wait and hope that the line of the island will protect them from any winds, hope they’ll be able to get windward of the land without too much trouble.

They’re only a day from Nassau, and time is slipping away like water in his hands.

The prize ship is still sitting there, slowly disappearing into the fog: the only good thing Steve can think is that at least the _Avenger_ won’t be easily seen, either. The _Bugle_ doesn’t have enough men to board them, but it would be foolish to rule out a humiliated captain making some sort of suicidal attempt to steal back their cargo.

A sharp whistle makes Steve look up. Barton is the last of the first watch left in the rigging, and he’s making his way down. The sails have been rolled, anchor dropped, and the rest of the crew is scampering below deck. All except Banner, who has decided to stand on the quarterdeck with his shirt off, whooping and cheering as bigger waves come rolling in.

Barton lands with a splash and only one shoe. Steve doesn’t ask.

“Should I bring him in?” he nods to Banner.

“I’ll get him,” Steve says. “Go below, try to get dry.”

“I’m not crying!”

“Time to GET DRY!” Steve repeats, raising his voice over the pounding rain. Dunphy and Braddock are going to lead the next watch, but he doesn’t know if the crew will hear anything if they try and raise an alarm. Barton darts off, and Steve makes a careful way along the deck.

If someone approaches them with no lights, they’ll be fucked.

(“We’re fucked,” Dernier had said, followed by a string of uncouth French. Ten minutes later, Steve had sent him to die.)

Steve feels in his pocket for his thumbprint-sized Saint Nicholas medallion, and sends up a prayer for his men’s safety. He isn’t entirely sure of the holistic power of this particular symbol: he’d stolen it from a Spanish ship some years back. But Saint Nicholas is the patron saint of thieves as well as sailors, so maybe. Maybe.

They’d even left the Spanish alive, on that prize. Maybe that counts for something as well.

He makes it to Banner.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Steve bellows, as close to Banner’s ear as he can get. “Get below!”

Banner is laughing, face turned to the sky. Steve pokes him again.

“Coming, ca’pn,” Banner says, or something like it: the wind snatches his words, and then his shirt. “Fuck!”

They watch it disappear into the fog, off the edge of the world. If he doesn’t have another shirt, he’ll pass out from sunstroke as soon as the morning comes, and Steve doesn’t think The New Boys are up for taking his place on the vanguard. But that’s a problem for the future. They walk cautiously down the stairs, to where the rest of the crew is already sprawled on swinging hammocks, taking the rain as some sort of holiday.

“Fuck were you doing?” Steve asks, shutting the door on the wind.

“Reveling,” Banner says.

They leave a trail of water as they wind their way through the hammocks, getting cursed by those they brush against. A steady stream of rain is coming through a crack in the ceiling, and The New Boys— Parker and Thompson, they have names, Steve should stop thinking of them as The New Boys— are taking turns shoving each others’ heads in it.

“You’re a lunatic, Banner,” Pietro says. He’s rocking his hammock back and forth like he’s a baby in a cradle. Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen him stay still.

“At least I’m clean now!” Bruce shoots back. “Free baths on deck, you smelly fucks!”

Steve drops into the empty hammock next to Sam’s, and rubs Redwing's beak. “Did the sugar and flour all get stored?”

“Wrapped it in tarpaulin. Should keep it dry.”

“And The New Boys?” Using their names was a quickly broken resolution.

Sam looks over to where Parker is clearly losing a contest of strength. “Hate each other. It’s not a problem, yet. Parker was right, he’s good in the rigging. And Thompson’s quick as a flash on the guns, Danvers is already talking about taking him on as gunner’s mate.”

“Well, anyone’s better than the last one.” The former gunner’s mate had died in Tortuga a few weeks back, choking on his own vomit. They’re silent in remembrance of the idiot just long enough to pick up another argument gathering steam, a couple hammocks away:

“You don’t tell me what I can and can’t talk about—”

Lang cuts Billy Kaplan off. “I do when it causes a storm! I told you, you talk about Namor, he’s going to get mad!”

“He’s a fucking fish man, he can’t cause rain!”

“He can, if he swims fast enough in a circle—”

“Nah.” Barton interrupts them both with a wave of his hand. “This is sorcery.”

Clint Barton doesn’t believe in sorcery. By his own account, he’s run too many cons to believe in magic of any kind— and he puts God in that category. It’s too easy to get someone to believe something just a little, he’d told Steve, after enough rum to knock out any sane man. But it doesn’t stop him from stoking superstition, and Steve doesn’t know if it’s so he can run a con in the future or just because he thinks it’s funny. Steve tries to glare, but there’s water dripping from his hair into his eyes, and it’s too dark for the look to register anyway. He settles for rubbing his scalp with the dirty cloth Sam shoves at him.

“Don’t make up stories,” Pym scoffs.

“I’m not making up shit!” Clint seems well on his way to an indignant rage. “Everyone knows—”

Sam sighs, and stands. “Here’s a fucking story for you,” he says, bending his knees to keep his balance as the boat rocks. “A real scary one. Once there was a pirate crew on a ship, caught in shit weather.” Everyone in earshot goes quiet. “So rainy that they all had to go below deck, all eighty-some of them, and sit in their hammocks to wait it out. But the truly scary part? That struck fear into all their hearts?” he leans towards where Kaplan and Lang are sitting, and many others lean to him in turn. “It wasn’t the fog, or the monsters can be born of it. It wasn’t the enemy ship, just a little ways away. It was that they had nothing to do but sit around and listen to Barton’s _fucking_ stories.”

A roar goes up, and Redwing screeches along in an attempt to be included. Clint offers a one-fingered salute, which sets them all off again, and for a second Steve doesn’t see ghosts. He catches Natasha’s eye and starts to smile, only to realize that she’s giving him a rather pointed look, just visible in the lamplight.

Steve slaps Sam on the back before making his way over to her, navigating more on voices than the flickers of light.

“—hardtack again, Morales, I swear on my mother’s rotting corpse I will lose my mind—”

“You think you can keep a cooking flame in this leaky dump? Just soak it in rum for a few hours—”

“A few _hours_ —”

Past Hawk and Morales, Steve uses Carl Danvers’s snores as a pole star, finally making it to Natasha. The hammocks weren’t really built for two, but he’s not going to move Danvers, so when he sits down Nat almost falls out. She pushes against him to right herself, and the light isn’t on her face anymore, but he’s sure she’s scowling.

“We’re gonna need help if we want to take the fleet,” she says, turning something over and over in her hand. The logbook. Steve has the urge to protect it, even though there’s no new information it can give him. “At least one ship, maybe two, and the piraguas. Someone good in a fight, ‘cause Hydra’s gonna outgun us no matter what. Unless Carter’s fleet is back?”

“Not likely.” Peggy had been headed up to the colonies via the Spanish Main, last he’d heard. She could be gone for months. “Coulson? He ever get the _Lola_ off that reef?”

“Worth a look.”

The _Avenger_ rocks a bit more, and Steve pinches the medallion in his pocket. Any more wind and this could set them back for days.

And they have to move fast.

“Even if they don’t have a ship, it might be worth seeing if we can hire off some of his men. They’re damn good fighters.” So are Steve’s men, evidently: someone goes thudding into somebody else, the hammocks swing, and Steve finds himself pitched forward into another hammock, knocking out the occupant.

And thus half the feared crew of the pirate Rogers, Captain of the Americas, ends up in a heap on the floor, with an agitated parrot flapping around their heads.

“We weren’t fighting!” shouts someone, presumably the culprit. “It was a friendly shove, Sam, we swear!”

“Fuck you!” bellows someone else.

Natasha has managed to get her elbow in Lang’s gut and Barton’s foot hooked under her neck, which is amazing given how far away they’d been. Steve removes Banner’s arm from his knee.

“You’re fucking crushing me down here,” wheezes Pym, which explains the squishy-yet-bony lump that had cushioned Steve’s fall.

They work themselves out of the pile.

“What were you saying about Coulson’s men?” Nat asks when she gets to her feet, arm still around the logbook.

“That’s a good joke,” Lang says. “Coulson’s _men._ If they’re all men I’ve grown tit— _ow Jesus Goddamn Christ!”_

“Sorry.” Nat’s smile is as sweet as the sugar they have stashed in the hold. “I was checking to see if you had tits. It weren’t fighting either, Sam, just honest discovery.”

Sam flings himself back into his hammock. “Save it for the beach.”

“Done,” Nat says.

“And I hope Namor eats you all alive.”

“I _told_ you!” Lang is starting to get into a state. “He _doesn’t like to be talked about!”_

 

* * *

 

The next morning, they’re able to leave the island and fog behind them, rolling forward into the ocean.

Steve stands at the bow, looking back on his crew. He tries not to see ghosts, and he tries not to think that they’re running out of time.

Everything is going as smoothly as it can. They’ve made their tacks, they’re back to the windward side, and they should hit Nassau in the next couple of days. The ship is heavy with plunder, the crew is going to get paid, which always makes them happy, and then—

“So.” Sam steps up next to him, Redwing comfortably perched on top of his head. “Coulson’s men?” At Steve’s look— “Romanoff was talking about them last night. Before she ‘investigated’ Lang. This for a consort?”

"You don't think we'll need one?" 

"Of course we'll need one." 

They'd found the logbook and record of the Hydra fleet a few weeks back— a three ship convoy. Big, but not too big— no men-of-war, just two transport ships and one to carry messages and scout ahead. There could be up to a hundred slaves on board. 

"I guess I'm going to have to talk to Fury about it," Steve says. "When we get back. I don't really want to go around advertising." 

“And I agree with that. But before we do anything, are we going to stop Duquesne and Whitman from comparing swords on deck?”

“Gross— oh.” The two are, in fact, comparing their actual swords. It’s fucking stupid to fight with a longsword on a ship, as far as Steve— and almost everybody else— is concerned, but Dane Whitman has some black monstrosity he insists on calling Ebony, and Duquesne has a reputation he’s trying to live up to.

There is not enough space on deck for them to actually spar without stabbing a bystander or going overboard.

“Eh,” Steve says. “It’s up to you, Mr. Quartermaster.”

“I’m much more interested in planning our next prize,” Sam decides. Redwing pecks at his ear, but he doesn't bother to brush her off. "I think I have our men covered. I've mentioned the fleet, here and there— if we decide to go after it, half of them will think it's their own idea. But it's going to be harder to sell Fury or a consort on a job they won't make much money off of." 

“Who says we can’t make money? We’ll have the ships. Some crew and captains as hostages." Steve's been working on the bits of a speech for a while. "And we sold our men on a life of freedom, on the idea that they aren’t owned by anyone. Don’t we owe it to ourselves and them to live up to that standard? We’ve got at least four men who have been on those ships themselves, there’s you and Morales from the islands. We convince the rest of the men that they’re fighting for, truth and righteousness, or something, and that’s worth more than gold. And besides that, it’s just the right thing to do.”

“And if word gets out, we can drive up the price of sugar,” Sam says. "In my experience, crews aren't motivated by pure intentions." He doesn’t sound mad, but Sam never sounds mad. Steve has waited for years for his tipping point, in a world where most men wear their scars and their rage like armor.

But not Sam. And not Steve. They’re not bound together by their ghosts, but they carry them the same way. Maybe that’s why they get on so well.

“There’s that,” Steve agrees. “Although I’m not really worried about the price of sugar. Are you?”

“Always." 

“Tits!” says Redwing.

“—really the best, once we get to the beach!” bellows Whitman, and Sam sighs.

“That’s two fucking fights,” he says. “Natasha and Lang are going to settle, too.”

“Should I—”

“Stay out of it, Captain.” Sam shakes his head a few times, like he’s trying to clear it. “So you’re off to Fury’s office, then? When we land?”

“Well.” Now that he thinks about it... “Maybe Natasha should do it.”

“What?”

“She’s known him longer. She’s better with… convincing people. He might be more willing to help if it comes from her.”

“Or,” Sam says, “he’s known her longer, and knows she’s better at convincing people, so he’s not going to fucking trust anything that comes out of her mouth.”

That’s… also a possibility. Steve trusts Natasha, but he’s in the minority amongst pirates.

“You could go.”

“And let you sell our shit to Sitwell? Fuck, no, you'd probably end up giving  _him_ money along with our stuff." 

Steve has no rebuttal to that. 

“Land!” Barton hollers. “Land!”

They turn. What Barton calls land is barely a smudge in the distance, but Vision Shade has yet to steer them wrong.

“You think the men will go for it?” Steve asks. “The plan, I mean.”

Sam considers. "Yes. I think we can get them there." 

 

* * *

 

There’s a warm smell that lingers over Nassau’s beaches this time of day. Steve breathes it in, letting the familiar smell of salt and rotting carcass welcome him home.

He leaves Brian Braddock to ferry the longboat back to the ship, and starts the sandy walk to his destination.

The scent gives way to others as he leaves the shanties and tents behind, reaching what Nassau considers a street. It’s just a few wooden buildings, built so close together that one tipped candle could destroy everything that seems permanent on the island. Three of the buildings are brothels. Four are taverns.

When Steve has a choice, he prefers going to Luke Cage’s down the way a bit for a drink— it’s better for his teeth. Specifically the keeping thereof. Today, though, he turns to the first. 

Despite already being the largest building, the Scale spills out into tacked-on porches and tents. It’s got a view of both the street and the beach, so they’ll all know he’s coming— he can see Maria on the balcony. She acts like she doesn’t notice him, and he doesn’t wave.

It’s barely evening, but there’s still men under the tents and filling up the inside, in the mismatched tables and chairs, caught in beams of sunlight from the haphazard roof. Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen the place empty, but that’s why so much quiet business can be conducted in its side rooms. It’s almost impossible to hear anything through the walls with that level of background noise, and there’s nothing suspicious about being there. If anything, not being seen at the Scale while on land is a cause for mistrust.

Two of Coulson’s men are arm-wrestling in one corner, but he doesn’t see any of Peggy’s, or Thor’s.

Emma Frost is there, though. She looks like she’s chatting up Thrasher Taylor, but she takes a second to crook a finger at Steve. He raises an eyebrow, and she shrugs, mouthing, _someday._

Somehow, that’s more threatening than the dark clouds that chased them home.

Nick Fury conducts his business out of the farthest of the rooms. He’s not the leader of Nassau, because the concept of general leadership is an anathema to this place. He’s not even the main fence: that’s the Starks on Harbor Island. What he is is the owner of the most profitable tavern, the most profitable information, and a few trade ships. Most sales go through him at one point or another, even if some of the captains are none the wiser.

Those captains don’t tend to last too long, the ones who forget who Fury is. That he's the man who, alongside Peggy and Stark, built this place from the ashes of the Spanish and the legend of Henry Every.

And the door to his office is cracked open, so after Maria gives him a nod, Steve lets himself in.

“Rogers.” Fury doesn’t even look up at him.

“Um, I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Just killing time, says Coulson, who is clearly not killing anything else: unless Steve’s eyes are deceiving him, both men are drinking rum out of delicate floral teacups. Coulson’s little finger is perfectly extended.

They make an odd pair. Fury, broad and imposing, with an eye patch that turns the side of his face to shadow. Coulson, who looks like he’d be more at home in some merchant shop somewhere on land, except that word is he’s killed at least one man with a sack of flour.

And they’re drinking rum.

From teacups.

It’s one of the first time’s he’s wished for Redwing to break an uncomfortable silence.

“I can come back another time?” Steve offers.

“No need. Good luck with the ship, Phil.” Fury raises his teacup in what could be a toast, and Coulson heaves himself up from the chair. He stretches, cracks his knuckles, and then gives Steve a pat on the arm before departing.

Steve sits down in the vacated seat, carefully sliding the teacup to one end of the table. After a second’s consideration, he puts it on a coaster. Fury’s been spreading the rumor that this desk once belonged to the Governor Sir Henry Morgan himself, and Steve isn’t going to be the one who gets rings on it, thanks ever so.

The only window in this room is at Fury’s back, which gives him an aura at this time of day. It might be the intended effect, but Steve imagines it’s difficult for him to read the pages in his shadow. Maybe he turns sideways when no one is around.

“Did they save the _Lola_?”

“No, her hull’s wormfood, God rest her. Phil’s working on a deal to buy the _Zephyr_ off of Carter, but nothing’s final till she and the fleet get back.”

“He can’t just take a canoe out and take a prize?” Most crews won’t wait months to set sail, not without a lot of money to tide them over. But Coulson had had a good run at the _Centipede_ a while back, maybe they’re living off it for now.

“The man has standards,” Fury says. He leans back in his chair, thumb and forefinger on his chin, good eye narrowed. “You’re back, and I know Sitwell’s inventorying your haul as we speak. So what brings you here when you should be off spending your new money?”

“Our next prize.” Steve takes a deep breath. “Along with an impressive wine collection, the _Dolphin_ had records of a Hydra company slave fleet. Admiral Zola’s.”

“Jesus shat. Shut the fucking door.”

Steve gets up and shuts the door. It’s a small room, barely four creaking paces from one end to another, but by the time he gets back Fury looks like he’s come up with five plans and six ways they could fail.

“I know it’s big,” he begins. “Obviously, if we’re to take it, we’d need help. Someone to sail in consort. Weapons. I was hoping for Coulson, but if the _Lola’s_ stuck for good—”

“You wanted to take on three Hydra ships with the _Avenger_ and the _Lola?_ Fuckshit, but I never took you for an idiot. And why the hell are you trying? Just say you could do it, men and weapons aside, there could be anywhere from seventy to a hundred slaves there. Even if you throw all the Hydra men overboard, and have enough men to crew all their ships, you can’t just sail them into Charles Town— they know Zola and they know you and it’s going to take one fuck of a bribe to convince them different.”

“Well.” Steve thinks of Sam’s cautious confidence. “I wasn’t planning on selling ‘em.”

Fury raises his eyebrow. “So you want my assistance— I’m assuming you want my assistance, you’re here talking to me— and that of another captain, to take a well defended fleet, resulting in certain deaths, and then… not make any money from it?”

That’s exactly how Steve is _not_ going to present this plan to his crew. “There’s the ships themselves. They’re worth a fortune— the _Valkyrie_ alone. And Zola, von Strucker, they come from money, we could ransom them. They’ll have weapons—”

“Of course they’ll have weapons, that’s what’ll fuck you. The King of England himself has probably invested in that damn fleet, Rogers!”

“Which King of England?” Steve smiles, and Fury rolls his eye heavenward.

“Of course. You’re a goddamn Catholic.”

“I’ve found the saints to be helpful in a tight spot.” It’s not exactly a secret, but it’s not exactly well known, either. Most of Steve’s men couldn’t be fucked either way, but most of them have heard a little Latin themselves. It’s still a dangerous admission in some parts. “Don’t tell me you’re a fucking Protestant.”

Fury laughs, and it’s the most humorless laugh Steve has ever heard. “I never learned to speak the language of my gods. Hydra and their like took them away from me. But you know that, and that’s why you think I’m going to back this crusade of yours.”

“You don’t want revenge?” Steve can’t remember a time he hasn’t wanted revenge for something. An insult, lost money, lost friends. Dum Dum’s broad grin. Bucky disappearing behind the tavern. Faceless people towering over him, telling him he’ll never amount to anything. He tries to channel that anger towards something better— new money, new friends— but it’s always there, the devil whispering in his ear. If he’d lost what Fury had—

“Some days, I want to burn the world of white men to the ground, you included,” Fury says. Says it like it’s a fact and not a confession. “Most days, even. But until such time as that’s an option, I content myself with running this damned town, making sure we live to harass empires another day, whoever ends up on the fucking British throne. And I won’t be able to do that if word gets out that I’m letting things get personal. If I pretend I don’t notice that you haven’t made clear what you get from this whole affair, and let you use my past to your own ends. You can sell me flour and indigo and tobacco, Rogers. But don’t think you can come in here and sell me something as empty as this.”

Steve really, really wishes Natasha was having this conversation instead.

“I hate Hydra,” he says, because it’s not a secret. “I hate slavery.”

“Every white man man hates slavery when he’s asking me for something. None of them have ever been willing to lose a few dollars for that hatred, much less lay down their lives, and I don’t see that changing.” Fury leans forward. “What the hell are you after, Rogers? How are you going to get your crew to agree with this? A suicide run with little profit?”

This is the second half of the speech Steve has been saving. “The more money Hydra makes, the more guns they buy, and the more they’ll sail our waters armed to the teeth. The more they’ll think they can grab sailors off the docks and men and women from their homes. The more they might just decide to hunt pirates down, instead of the other way ‘round. And the more armed Hydra ships go by, the more the others are going to think someone’s watching out for them, that they don’t need to surrender.

“But if we take a whole fleet, armed as they are, who’s going to be the next captain to think he can fight us? If we show them, look, we value freedom enough to set these people free instead of taking money, how many sailors are going to be willing to die to defend a captain who tortures them? If we show them we’re so rich we don’t even need that extra coin, who’s going to say no the next time we ask for recruits? We’ll be the kings of this corner of the world, and the world is going to know it.”

Fury keeps staring at him.

“That’s how I’m going to sell it to my crew,” Steve says, when it’s clear more is expected of him. “Also, then we can take Hydra’s guns. And ships. If we have a consort and a plan, I think the men will agree to it. More comforting, Wilson and Romanoff think they'll agree." 

“Well, I can’t agree.” Fury leans back in his chair and folds his arms, every inch a bureaucrat. “If you fail, it’ll undermine my credibility, my resources, and my standing on this godforsaken sand heap.”

“If we win—”

“I can’t plan for you winning.”

Steve’s stomach sinks a little, even though he’s not sure what he expected. He opens his mouth to try and argue, but Fury holds up a hand.

“What I can do,” he says, “is to put in a good word for you with my old friend Charles. You sell him on this prize, and maybe he’ll mention it to _his_ old friend Erik, whose politics you might find helpful.”

“Erik.” Steve might as well have never closed his mouth, because he’s fighting to keep his jaw off the floor. “You mean Erik Lehnsherr? Of the _Hellfire?”_

“He hates Hydra. He hates slavery.” When Steve doesn’t smile, Fury rolls his eye again and continues. “You want another captain who might agree to this shit, you want to talk to Lehnsherr.”

Steve can say with certainty that he’s never wanted to talk to Lehnsherr in his life. “He’s a barbarian.”

“He whose house is of glass.”

Steve waits for the rest of the sentence, watching the play of light on Fury’s shiny bald head, but speaks when it’s clear no explanation is coming. “Glass house what?”

“Mustn’t throw stones at another? Read a fucking book, Rogers.”

He loves reading books. It's not his fault he never has a damn chance. “I’ll go for those instead of the rum next time, that’ll make my crew love me. Fuck’s that go to do with Lehnsherr?”

“We’re all barbarians to the civilized society.” Fury pours himself another teacup of rum, but he doesn’t offer Steve any. “Talk to Charles. Get Lehnsherr to agree with your plan. And if you two decide to set sail, well, ain’t like that’s any business of mine.”

Steve rubs his tongue along the inside of his teeth. One of them wiggles a little, and he sucks on it, thoughtful. “Any idea where Thor went off to?”

“Up north. But nobody here’s got any money on him being captain when he gets back, if his slimy dog of a quartermaster has anything to do with it.”

That’d be a shame. Steve makes a mental note to recruit Thor if it happens. “You don’t trust Loki?”

“I don’t trust anyone. But especially not Loki.”

“And Richards—”

“Rogers.” Fury glares. “If you think you can take on Hydra with the _Avenger_ and the _Fantastic,_ I can just kill you now and save them the trouble. Talk to Charles. Work with Lehnsherr. You might even get along— you’re very similar people.”

No. No they’re not. “I’m not exactly taking that as a compliment.”

“Take it however you want, but take it out of my office. I’m not your damn nanny.”

Steve stands. He has the sudden urge to say “sir,” but he quashes it: navy manners don’t play in Nassau, and he’d thought the instincts long gone. He settles for nodding at Fury, before turning to the door.

Lehnsherr.

Fuck.

A group of the _Hellfire’s_ crew are singing _The Bay of Biscay_ in the corner of the main room, and he eyes them. Wagner, Drake, and their doctor McCoy. He doesn’t hate any of them, at least not yet, so he allows himself some cautious optimism.

At which point a yell goes up, and the head of their vanguard starts trying to strangle Victor Creed with her feet.

Optimism squashed, Steve tries to make for the other side of the room, but a leg shoots out. Barely able to stop himself from falling headfirst into its owner, he settles for catching a chair and glaring. 

Jack Rollins glares back. “Watch where the fuck you’re going.”

“You stuck out your own damn foot.” This is why Steve doesn’t drink at the Scale. Fury’s thrown Rollins and his captain, Rumlow, out five or six times by now but it only seems to make them want to come back more. At this point, Fury probably lets them in so he can keep an eye on them.

Or he wants some of Steve’s remaining teeth.

Rollins stands. “Are you accusin’ me of somethin’?”

Steve has at least four inches on the man in both directions, but Rollins has a hand on his knife. Steve could twist his wrist around, maybe even throw him onto a table, but he’s got no backup here. The rest of his crew is down at the beach, where Steve left them before his secret meeting.

Two men stand up as well— both from the _Crossbones._ One is Cutthroat Leighton. The other looks like he was put together by spare parts of asshole, but Steve doesn’t know his name.

He thinks he could take the three of them.

He might even enjoy it.

He’s not Coulson and Fury, sipping rum from teacups, trying to stay ten steps ahead of everyone else.

But a fight isn’t going to get him anywhere but out thrown out on the street, and he needs to meet with Xavier if he has any hope.

That thought sounds a lot like Natasha.

Although if Natasha were here, Steve would have punched Rollins by now. 

He grits his teeth.

“I’m just walking here,” he says, instead of _fuck you, fuck your captain, fuck your mother and fuck your ship_

Rollins peers over Steve’s shoulder. He’s going to see that Steve’s here alone, but maybe he’s wondering how many people here will be on his side, if they try and give a damn. Whatever fight was going on with the _Hellfire_ crew seems to have stopped, although neither Steve nor Rumlow can assume their help.

It would be so fucking easy to punch him. Punch him, go for the wrist, twist it, either get him to drop the knife or just make him stab himself—

“Keep walking,” Rollins says.

There’s nothing Steve can say that won’t start a fight, but he can’t let Rollins have the last word: he settles for spitting. Not on Rollins’s shoe, nothing so upfront, but right next to it.

And then he walks away, daring Rollins to attack him from behind.

He doesn’t.

Instead Steve gets to the last empty table in peace, sits down, and waits.

 

* * *

 

 

The new boy shoves a book at Sam. “These are the captain’s logs,” he says. “Cleese just put them in with the books.” There’s a _what a fucking idiot_ in his voice that he doesn’t say aloud, but Sam figures that’s just a matter of time.

“I don’t think Cleese knows how to read.” He tries to strike a balance between understanding and defensive: he doesn’t want to insult his crew when they aren’t around to laugh about it, but he doesn’t want to tell off the new boy, either. Even though they’re some of the last few on deck as they finish hauling everything to shore.

“Neither can I,” Parker says. “I can still tell the difference between handwriting and press.”

That’s… reasonable, but Sam flips open the book Parker had given him just to be sure. It’s covered in the affected, loopy handwriting of a merchant captain Sam had last seen sweating in fear.

(Sam will tell anyone who listens that pirates are cruel. That they want for nothing but gold and women and drink. _A wealthy man once hid his pearls from Captain Rogers,_ he’d told someone once. _And so determined was Rogers to find them that he hunted the man, from Boston to the Spanish Main, and he made so much money along the way that once he found the man he just kept going. That’s why they call him Captain of the Americas. Held the whole New World in terror, he did, sailing around Brazil, the Strait of Magellan, up through new Spain._ )

Steve has never been farther South than Brazil, to Sam’s knowledge, but that’s not what matters. It’s in the merchants’ best interests to make Steve as terrifying a nightmare as possible, so his creditors and insurers will understand his surrender. It’s in the pirates’ best interest to get that surrender. Along the way, a story goes from ear to ear, and then someone writes it down and it becomes a fact.

The words Sam is holding now—

Fact.

The log has been opened frequently to this spot, and as Sam’s eye catches on the page, he can see why. He touches the writing with his fingertips.

Then he closes the book.

He’d told that story of Captain Americas, turned it from a joking nickname into something to be feared. He and Clint had spread it around the Bahamas. But neither of them had been there when it started.

Sam wasn’t there for the prologue, the one with the burning ships that keeps Steve awake into the early mornings. Steve had still had ashes in his eyes, the first time Sam had spoken to him— a recent legend, sitting in the corner at Luke’s.

And he knows Steve now, better than anyone except maybe Nat, so how had he missed this?

Sam tucks the book under his arm.

He should take it to the crew. He should take it to Natasha. But this doesn’t mean that their plan isn’t a good one, and Sam believes in their plan. So what good would it do?

Sam follows the last crate of sugar into the canoe, and he and Parker paddle for shore. Parker doesn’t stop talking, even as he gasps for breath between strokes.

“And Billy says Morales says, if you soak hardtack in Rum for an hour it becomes goopy and chewy like stew, but when I did it—”

Sam should introduce him to the Shittier Wilson, give Parker a taste of his own noise. But then the two of them might, god forbid, get along.

“Does Redwing eat hardtack? Where is Redwing?”

Redwing views hardtack as a challenge. Sam had left her a piece to keep her occupied. He’ll be back to the ship to get her tomorrow: she hates being alone for more than a watch or two. “She’s probably pooping all over the hold right now.”

“Oh, wow. But I bet you don’t want to have to take her when you’re ashore. Especially to the brothel, that’d be— oh, Billy says, this whore, Raina— do you know Raina?”

Has Parker completely switched stories? He can’t keep anything to himself, it seems, and Sam has decided to find it endearing. But it also means that he’s shit at secrets. Which is good. Secrets are expressly forbidden, as Sam had told him a few days ago, so what the hell is he doing, carrying this book around?

(He’s getting information. He's not keeping a secret if he doesn’t know what the secret is.)

“I know Raina,” Sam says. “Are you planning to, ah, know Raina?”

He looks over his shoulder to see Parker’s face turn blotchy and red. Kid can’t more than seventeen, if that.

“Uh,” he says. “I, well, they said there were, I—”

Sam really earns his extra quarter share. “Listen carefully, because you’re new and you’re young and you don’t deserve to find this out by trial and error.” And then, ideally, he will never speak to Sam of these things again. “Always pay Raina upfront, or she’ll charge you interest. Never, ever fight anyone else over her: if you’re in that situation, it’s because she tricked you into being there, in order to charge more for her time. Don’t try anything with Brandt, she and Duquesne might actually care about each other, and it gets messy when it’s your own crew. Julia, they call her Spider-Woman for a reason. And Emma, she’ll have your secrets out before your dick, so if you’re not prepared to keep your mouth shut don’t even approach her. You got that?”

“Um. Yes?”

They paddle for a minute, and then, “so which one is with Swordsman?”

“Brandt.”

“And Raina?”

“Pay upfront, never fight.”

This kid might be smart, and Sam nods, approving. He’s not going to call the rest of Nassau’s whores harmless, because he values his balls, but those are the main ones and he doesn’t want to see Parker broke and humiliated. The rest he can figure out on his own.

Parker takes a deep breath like he’s going to say something, but instead— “Is that Lang and Romanoff?”

Sam squints at the shore. What had just a few minutes ago been his crew loading sugar onto donkeys is now a semi-circle around two figures. One has red hair. The other will have a face full of sand any minute.

“Shit.”

“Well, they did say they’d save it for the beach.” Parker holds a hand over his eyes. “Who do you think will win?”

Natasha. There’s not much of a question, there. Lang’s good at being a carpenter's mate, and he’s decent in a brawl, but she _trains_. Most of their men can’t fathom such a thing. “Whoever wins, it’s still bad.”

“You think they’ll kill each other over a tit joke?”

Sam lowers his paddle for a second. The waves push them forward gently, throwing dizzying light into his face, and he has to close his eyes for a second. “Lesson one, kid. If Romanoff humiliates or kills Pym’s mate, there’s a good chance that’ll make Pym mad, and at best we lose our carpenter. At worst, he tries to get revenge. He’ll be supported by everyone who doesn’t like having her on board. The crew divides into factions, and ships can’t sustain crews in factions.”

“Oh.” Peter frowns. “So he should beat her, then?”

Apparently Sam is some sort of professor today. “Everyone knows that she and S— the captain— are close. If she loses, it’s going to be seen as a statement on him, and I’ll probably have to get involved, and that’ll put my neutrality in question. It also means people who don’t like her will have the— aw, hell.”

It’s taken about ten seconds for Nat to get Lang on the ground, but they’re both rolling now. They deserve the sand that’s going to end up in their arsecracks. And if the crew fractures because of a tit joke, then they all deserve to get blown up by Hydra.

Sam picks up his paddle again.

It takes them another couple minutes to get to shore, to get out of the boat, to drag the boat onto the sand so that it doesn’t float away, and in that time the jeers, cheers and curses have increased. It’s also given Sam time to retrieve the logbook from under his legs, and come up with a cunning plan.

“Get the sugar loaded,” he says to Parker. And then, approaching his crew, making a point not to look at where Natasha has Lang in a chokehold: “now that this is settled, first round’s on me at Luke’s!”

A cheer goes up.

“You earned it after that weather,” he adds, to make sure nobody thinks he’s breaking up a fight for political reasons.

The cheer gets louder. Mentally, Sam counts to ten, and by the time he’s done everyone has abandoned Lang and Natasha. They slowly pick themselves up.

“Good?” Sam asks.

Lang grunts, and then hurries after the others.

“Whatever catastrophe you were imagining,” Natasha says, regal and dignified for someone with that much sand in her hair, “I wasn’t going to let it get that far.” Her eyes drop to the book under Sam’s arm.

“I didn’t want it to go _anywhere._ ” If Sam doesn’t act like it’s weird for him to be carrying the captain’s log, then maybe she won’t, either. They still have planning to do, and even if he’s wrong about what’s inside, he doesn’t want it getting in the hands of another crew. This prize is theirs. “Think Steve will get Fury on board?”

“He has the best chance. Stay there a moment.” Nat walks back to the water, wades into the surf, and sticks her head in for a second before flipping her hair back before rejoining him. She’s just replaced the sand with salt, but Sam isn’t going to question her personal grooming. He just shaves his head.

“He thinks you should have gone instead, knowing Fury better.”

She waves him off. “He doesn’t trust me. No one could ever suspect Steve of being sneaky. Not even Fury. Either he’ll agree or he won’t, but it won’t be personal.”

No one could ever suspect Steve of being sneaky, Sam repeats to himself. But the weight of the book is dragging him down, down, down.

“Get your money,” Nat says. “You just promised to pay for everyone’s drinks.”

The price of peace is always high.

 

* * *

 

The fact that Fury doesn’t trust him stings his pride. Steve has made a career of being trustworthy. Nobody is going to surrender if they think he’ll kill them afterward. His crew won’t elect him captain if they think he’ll lie to them.

He’ll play dirty, but he’s not going to lie about his intentions. 

Others don’t hold to such honesty.

Erik Lehnsherr, to pick the first example to pop into his head.

Charles Xavier finally finishes whatever he was doing on the other end of the room. ‘Getting hopelessly drunk’ is what it looks like from where Steve is sitting, but he’s learned not to assume anything about anyone who works for Fury. Xavier tucks a crutch under each arm and starts towards him, and Steve looks at the table to make it seem like he isn’t waiting.

 _Clop. Clop. Tap-creak. Clop. Clop. Tap-creak._ Right crutch, left crutch, and a push forward from the metal leg strapped to Xavier’s left thigh. The right stump hangs just a little lower than the other, trouser leg tied carefully around the end.

_Clop. Clop. Tap-creak._

Steve hasn’t met with Xavier much before, but the man had always struck him as pleasant, in a distant sort of way. With his raggedy brown hair and blue eyes, he reminds Steve just enough of Bucky to make hatred impossible. But it makes it hard to like him as well.

A crutch enters Steve’s line of vision, and then the rest of Xavier swings into view. Steve looks up like he’s noticing him for the first time, and nobody’s going to be fooled, but that seems less rude than staring. The man sits, and then flags down Maria with a tap of his fingers.

“Bowl of punch, if you please,” he says, either not seeing or  ignoring the mug of rum already in Steve’s hand. “If we’re going to talk business, we should do it professional, don’t you agree?”

“Are we talking business?” There’s no point keeping his voice down for Maria’s sake— she likely already knows everything that’s going on. She probably knows more than Steve.

Xavier leans his crutch against the bench, and then plops his elbows down on the table, fixing Steve with his uncanny stare. “You tell me. Fury says you’ve got your eyes on a prize. Need a consort. A captain with your record, there should be no lack of volunteers. You just have to ask.”

Steve pinches his medallion under the table. “It’s not a typical prize.” As Xavier very well knows. Still, again, Steve explains the edges of the plan. The ship. The slaves. The warning. In the middle, Maria comes with their punch and a couple more mugs.

He’s not going to be sober when he gets out of here, but maybe it’s for the best.

“And you want Erik’s help?”

 _Want_ is not the word Steve would have chosen. “It was suggested to me that his help would increase our chance of success,” he says, with a diplomacy he rarely employs.

“Yes.” Xavier keeps studying him, a slow scan from his face to his chest to his hands that Steve would consider flirtation in most other circumstances. Instead, he has the distinct impression of his thoughts being stolen, spread out for Xavier to sift through like a quartermaster on a prize ship. “But you don’t seem to want him. You could get the ship and canoes from anyone, but most people would see Erik and his crew as a valuable asset.  Are you worried about the increased number of shares? Think he’ll be a tougher negotiator?”

It’s hard to say what, exactly, the shares will be from this trip, and the increased number of men might make that revelation a bit easier— more men means less risk to the crew as a whole.

Xavier somehow gets the thought from his face. “Your reservation is about Erik.”

“I don’t know him well.” But he’s heard a fair bit. It seems unwise to share that bit with the man who, word is, was once as closer to Lehnsherr as a brother.

“But?”

“I disagree with him on some methods.”

It’s hard not to get the sense that Xavier is enjoying himself a little bit. “Speak freely, Captain. I won’t tell.”

That’s a lie. Pirates— even former pirates, or whatever the fuck Xavier is now— are the worst gossips Steve has ever had the misfortune to work with. Worse than his small town in Ireland. Worse than the back corners of London. Worse than the Navy. Worse than a brothel frequented by the Navy.

Just. The worst. In general.

Xavier pauses as Cutthroat Leighton walks by, just a little too close. Xavier is carefully not looking at him in a way that makes Steve thinks that he’s definitely looking at him.

At least they’ll know who’s listening.

The _Hellfire_ crew has moved into a new song, and even though Steve doesn’t think his and Charles’s words can be made out, their intent— quiet, private, business meeting— must be obvious to anyone looking.

Steve wouldn’t worry, except that Xavier seems to be worried.

He wouldn’t worry, except that Cutthroat has sat down three tables away and is still watching them.

“I find him reckless,” Steve says finally.

Xavier grins, worry replaced with what looks like genuine delight. “Oh?"

Whatever Steve says, everyone’s going to hear about it, but he’s just far enough on the right side of drunk that he doesn’t care. “If even one of ten stories I’ve heard are true, he’s violent to an extreme, and makes rash decisions in the heat of the moment. What he did to that captain near Port Royal…” Steve has seen and inflicted a lot of violence, and it still turns his stomach to think of what Lehnsherr did. Clint had told him the story, and Clint tends to embellish, but Steve had heard the exact same tale from McCoy, who does not.

“Erik has a strong sense of justice. Rather like yourself.”

“Woolding isn’t justice. I would never—”

A raised finger stops him mid-sentence. “A strong sense of justice. I didn’t say it was the same as yours. But an eye for an eye— it’s the oldest form, is it not? Well, eyes in the plural, I suppose.” Xavier smiles like he’s made a clever joke, but all Steve can think of is a wooden clamp around a man’s skull, tightened and tightened until his eyes popped out.

He takes another drink.

Cutthroat is still looking at him, but Steve can’t fight him just for looking.

“And further,” Xavier continues, “do you think you haven’t profited? Do you think so many ships would strike their colors before you if they weren’t afraid of such a fate for themselves? If you had to punish more disobedient captains—”

“Given what you know of me,” Steve interrupts, “do you think that I’m afraid of making hard choices?”

“I think without pirates like Erik you would have to make more of them.” He speaks like a politician, or how Steve always imagined them to speak. He can’t recall meeting any himself but at the end of a sword, and there eloquence and moral arguments tended to fail them.

Also. “This story— the woolding— that was before your injury. You were there.”

“I was.”

“They say he listened to your council. You approved of this?” Although Lehnsherr certainly hadn’t put it to a vote of his men. He just… did it.

Xavier raises his mug. “The decision wasn’t mine to make.”

It should have been. And he _didn’t_ approve, Steve realizes. What kind of man would defend the interests of someone with whom they disagreed on such a moral level? It’s hard to say. A business man, or a loyal one?

He’s not entirely wrong about Lehnsherr’s terror making the seas safer for pirates, but he’s not entirely right, either.

“Our goal is to rescue the slaves,” he says. “Alive, and unharmed. I am to trust that Lehnsherr, in battle, would make decisions with that in mind?”

“I’d ask the same question of you, Captain Rogers.” Xavier puts down his mug and lifts an eyebrow instead. _“I’ve_ heard that your grudge of Hydra runs deep. What would you do, if you saw through your glass a man who you hated in particular? Would you stop and think of the poor people trapped below decks, or would you fire all your guns in the hopes of killing that man?”

Steve crosses his arms. “I wouldn’t need my cannons. That’s what I have Barton for.”

“And if he’s injured? And you see one of the men who press-ganged your friend?”

“What the shite,” his accept slips before he can catch it, “do you know about that?”

He knows what Xavier knows. Goddamned pirates.

“It’s amazing what men will say in front of a cripple. I lost my legs, you know, not my fucking head. But you didn’t answer the question. You’re asking me to put in a good word for you with the men I sailed with. My former brothers. How can I trust that you’ll value their safety against your revenge, against your goal?”

It takes Steve longer to answer than he really wants it to. “My duty is to my crew. Not my vendettas. I wouldn’t fire, at least not below decks.”

“Hmm.” It’s hard to tell if Xavier is looking at him now, or if he’s fixed on a point somewhere over Xavier’s shoulder. “And yet you go after a prize that may yield little to no profit. No, I heard you, it’s all about the message. But what’s the fate of your messages? What are you going to do with these people? Send them off in a sloop? Send them back home? The men who sold them will be just as happy to do so again.”

“I thought,” Steve says, “that I would ask them. Freeing them means letting them decide what they want to do, doesn’t it?”

“That’s assuming they all want to go to the same place. No, don’t argue with me, I’m not counting fugitive slaves before they’re fugitives. Just…”

One of them is very drunk, but Steve can’t tell if it’s him. “Just what?”

“Jesus Christ,” Xavier says again.

 

* * *

 

By the time Sam has finished calling Sitwell a cheap good-for-nothing bastard-son-of-a-whore, and Sitwell is done calling Sam a sea dog with no future and a tiny cock, and they’ve compromised on a price somewhere in the middle, the party at Luke’s is well underway.

Eighty men don’t actually fit in the room, so they’ve spilled out back, taking drinks from their own bottles. Emma Frost, never one to let an opportunity go by, has sent a few of her girls over. Raina has gotten Whitman and Lang into a bidding war over her with a skill that would make Sam tip his hat to her, if he was wearing his hat, and if he wasn’t going to get his men’s complaints in the morning when they’re out of money.

Well, it’s not like they have anything to save their money for.

Sam snags a drink, clarifies with Luke that he’s only paying for the _first_ round and he’ll have the money to him in the morning, and then takes up a position by the wall with an eye on the entrance. Natasha tries to get him to move for about two minutes before she sees Johnson from Coulson’s crew and disappears.

Sam is pretty sure they’re fucking, but she won’t say.

He’s also got some suspicion about what’s actually in Davey Johnson’s pants, but he hasn’t asked about that, either.

Instead he holds the book tighter, and he drinks.

When the mug is empty, he lets it dangle off one finger. Luke catches his eye after a while and nods to it, but Sam shakes his head.

He doesn’t want to be entirely sober for this, but he doesn’t want to be drunk.

He’ll wait.

Unless he’s gotten very bad at predicting Steve, the captain will be here.

And,

There.

Steve wanders through the door with an aimless gait, looking like he’s had a bit too much already. But maybe that’s good. Maybe Sam will have a better shot at the truth, that way.

“Captain!” Barton bellows, from his place atop a table. The cry is taken up by others, and Sam loses track of Steve for a second as he gets pulled into the revelry.

What exactly is being celebrated, it’s hard to say. A safe return home, maybe. Sam paying for drinks, probably.

 _Just the first drink,_ he wants to remind everyone.

But it’s fine. Sam has waited for hours, and he can keep waiting. Unless Steve becomes too drunk to form a thought, and then Sam will have to wait until tomorrow.

Right.

He elbows himself into the melee and sits down in front of Steve. Better to assess the situation early.

“How much did you drink at the Scale?”

“One drink!” Steve says proudly, and then considers. “Well, two drinks. And then a bowl of punch. And then… possibly another drink, after that?” he sighs. “Fury made me talk to Xavier. That man can drink, Sam. He can drink a lot.”

So can Steve. He’ll probably be sober enough in ten minutes. Or he’s sober enough now and just acting drunk in order to seem more like one of the men.

“Alright.” Sam gets up and wedges the hand not clinging to the logbook under Steve’s shoulder. “Let’s get you somewhere flat, okay?”

“I’m really quite fine,” Steve insists, even as he allows himself to be dragged: Steve is quite a lot of man. It would take more than Sam to get him anywhere against his will. But they escape, past the revelry outside, and into the smelly Nassau night. Even when they’ve been at sea for weeks, the smell never quite leaves Sam’s nose. It makes him nauseous, some days.

And even at night, the place is alive.

Music. Retching. Yelling. Fucking. Pissing.

“Where are we going?” Steve sounds a little more together than he had before.Sobered by the stench of the place, perhaps. 

“I need to talk to you.” They stop on the edge of the beach. In front of them, the ships bob, dark masses in the water. Longboats lay haphazard in the sand. Tents cram every inch of space between tide line and street— there are banners indicating which bit belongs to each crew, although it’s too dark to really make them out. But there’s Hunter of the _Lola_ , crouching by a fire, going on about mushrooms, and behind him is Richards of the _Fantastic_. He’s also speaking at length about something, although Sam can’t make it out.

But he knows these men. Can recognize almost every face in this play-act of a town.

He just has to remember that he can recognize Steve, too.

They settle near the _Avenger’s_ tents, close enough to the water that the waves will drown out their voices.

“Well?”

It’s only the second time Steve has spoken since they left.

Sam grits his teeth, and then drops the logbook into his captain’s lap. The poor, worn binding flips open to the same cracked point— Sam can tell by the gap between pages. Steve hasn’t just been looking at it. He’s held that book open. Slept on it, maybe. Clung so hard that his secret gave him away.

Steve touches the page, and sighs. He doesn’t pretend to be stupid, and he doesn’t pretend to be drunk.

 _Potter, George and Barnes, James ("Bucky") traded to_ Valkyrie _in exchange for Smithe, Richard  and Allen, Thomas ("Tommy")._

“Sam.”

The waves crash. Someone yells at something, and someone else yells back. It all feels very far away.

Sam keeps waiting.

The waves crash again. The yelling stops.

“I was all set to scream at you,” Sam admits. He turns away from Steve and scowls at the shadow of the _Avenger._ “I had a whole speech worked up.” It’s gone, now. He’s got no right to feel betrayed, really.

“I’m listening,” Steve says, like Sam does have a right.

But what did he expect, really?

There’s sand in his pants. 

“You wrote the damn articles yourself. You know what they say about secrets.”

“Secrets that affect the crew. This doesn’t,” Steve says immediately. He’s probably had this exact argument with himself. “Everything I said is true, everything we talked about—”

“But it’s not.” Sam digs his fingers into the sand, lets it fall between his knuckles like an hourglass. “It’s not." _You made me think—_ “If we’re on the ship, and someone gives you a choice between Barnes and the prize, Barnes and the _crew—”_

“I won’t let it get to that.”

It’s already gotten to that. It’s the only damn reason they’re out there. Steve talked about freeing people, but all he meant was one man on the weather deck.

“For fuck’s sake, you have no way of knowing.” Sam picks up another handful of sand. “We’re going against a fleet of armed ships, with another crew—”

“About that—”

“There are going to be over a hundred men counting on you to act in their interests, counting on _me,_ and there’s god knows how many people locked up on those ships, and I need your assurance that if Zola puts a gun to Barnes’s head you won’t back off.”

Steve’s sigh is more like a hiss. “Zola probably doesn’t know—”

The sand makes no sound when Sam throws it. “Or whatever! You have a shot at their sniper, but he’s standing close to Barnes and your aim isn’t sure! We have to fire on the ship Barnes is on, and you don’t know you can avoid killing him! You hesitate to send in the vanguard because they don’t know not to kill that one slaver who looks like all the other slavers! This is just what I’ve come up with in the last three minutes, and I’m not the strategist here!”

“I’d find a way to save all of you.”

“That’s not an answer.” Even if Steve sounds so earnest about it. Even though if anyone could find a way to sacrifice themselves, it’s Steve fucking Rogers, because he lies awake at night worrying about losing another crew. But it’s still _not a fucking answer._

“Well what do you want me to say, Sam! I’m not going to apologize.”

He’s clawed deep enough that the sand is coming up damp. “Just tell me what I want to hear, Steve. So that I don’t have to go to the crew with this.”

The sounds of Nassau linger in Steve’s pause.

Sam waits. And after a second, Steve turns to look at him. Just a shadowy outline.

“I’d choose you,” he says. “The crew. This doesn’t change anything, Sam.”

Fuck.

Earlier, Sam had thought that Steve was a bad liar. But he’d had no fucking clue, had he? Bad liars make the best liars because no one will ever see it coming.

“Were you ever planning on telling me? On telling anyone?” Was he going to say  _ho, look who it is!_   _What a surprise!_ “Natasha knew Barnes.” Natasha _knew_ Barnes. “You didn’t think she’d ask questions?”

Another pause.

“Natasha knows,” Steve admits.

“God _damn_ it.” That’s… that makes it worse. Sam stands and walks a few paces, because that anger is- he’s caught it again, and he’s going to hold on. Because it’s not that Steve didn’t trust anyone with his plan.

It’s just that he didn’t trust Sam.

And it makes sense. Natasha was there, with Bucky.

And it makes sense in other ways, too, but Sam is too angry to parse them out in a straightforward manner. Because the thing is—

He turns back around.

“I know your ghosts,” he says. “I know Bucky. The crew of the _Howl.”_ So he can’t hate Steve for this, not like he wants to, even as his heart breaks at the thought of hating Steve at all. “And you know my ghosts.” Jamaican dirt under his hands. His mother shoving him— _run_ — and Riley falling. Riley’s head splitting open in the dirt. “You _know_ my ghosts,” he says again. “You knew exactly what to say to get me to commit my life to this plan. You used _me.”_

Steve looks down, and Sam digs his toes into the ground.

Sam grew up fearing ships. He had never been on one, but his grandmother had. He’d grown up with the stories. So when he ran, and the water was the only place he could run to, it felt like… like Jesus Christ was really there, and he was having a goddamn laugh.

It had been easy to get on the ship. They had other black men as crew, and enough of the white men couldn’t tell them apart. A man had asked if he was Wilson, and he’d said yes.

Sam Wilson, he’d clarified later.

He hadn’t really had a last name before, but he’d loved it, because it saved him.

“When I first fell in with a pirate crew, I thought, this is it. This is freedom. A say in my own future. A goddamn _vote._ My mom always said— when we got pulled away from our towns and families, we found new families on the ships, on the plantations. And that’s what I thought I was doing on the ship. And then we caught a slave ship, and for all that talk of freedom, we sold them.

“I didn’t say anything. None of the African men said anything. We took our money, and I thought, I’ve become one of those men who sold my grandmother, who sold his own people for money. Because that’s just the way the world is, right?” He’s still standing and he doesn’t want to sit again, so he kicks some sand instead. He doesn’t exactly mean to kick it at Steve but he doesn’t exactly try and avoid him, either. It’s dark. “I've never forgiven myself for it. But you knew that. You knew enough of that. So you come to me and you say it’s all about _freedom_ and _doing what’s right_ and I think, finally, I was right to trust you, to care about you, and you’re just…” he shakes his head.

Steve doesn’t say anything for a minute.

Then two.

Sam sits down, because the only other answer is to storm away. And he’s done it, he’s said his piece. And maybe it’s not entirely fair, because Steve does plan on freeing the people Hydra has stolen— he could have rescued Barnes _and_ sold them, and he’s not— but it’s his secondary mission, and it’s only there because he didn’t have the fucking balls to look Sam in the eye and ask him to help hunt a slaver.

And part of him wants to storm away. Wants to say to _Hell_ with Steve and hell with this mission. But he won’t, because he can still save people. Because he is the goddamn quartermaster of the _Avenger_. He’s earned his crew’s respect, and they’ve earned his care, and he is going to hold them together through this as best he can.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says.

“I thought you weren’t going to apologize.” Because Steve is always so goddamn sincere.

“Not for trying to save Bucky. But I’m sorry for not telling you everything. I should have done that. I thought…” he huffs. “I thought you’d react almost exactly the way you did, and I was afraid.”

“So, you’re saying it’s my fault?”

“No! Just, by trying to prevent it, I caused you to feel exactly how I didn’t want you to— I didn’t want you to think…”

Whatever Steve didn’t want Sam to think, he doesn’t say.

“In the future,” Sam says, “you tell me everything.”

“Done.”

But he’s going to stay mad. He owes that to himself.

(Even though he’ll forgive Steve eventually. Sam can’t lie to himself about that. He just. Doesn't know how he'll manage it.) 

“What are you going to do?” Steve asks.

Sam has to think about it for a few moments. “I’m going to rally the crew, and I’m going to take the Hydra fleet, and I’m going to free the slaves, and if I have time after that, I’m going to save your goddamn friend.”

“Sam.”

“And in the meantime, I’m going to spend all my money having a _wild_ night at Emma’s… oh shit.”

“What?”

“I can’t do that. I owe Luke, oh, ten pieces of eight for all the drinks I had to buy tonight to keep Lang and Nat from feuding.” He leans back into the dirt.

“I can pay for it.”

“I don’t fucking want you to pay for it. It’s fine.” He jams his thumb as far into the sand as it will go.

“Are they—”

“They’re fine. It was about that tit thing during the rain. It’s my problem to manage.” He doesn’t want to talk to Steve, but there are things he needs to know. “How did it go with Fury? You said you talked to Xavier?” Sam doesn’t actually know much about Charles Xavier, except that the man has no legs and works for Fury. Why Fury is the boss when it’s Xavier’s name that turns their stolen goods into coin, Sam can’t say, but he makes a habit of not questioning too hard the power structure of Nassau. It all might crumble under him, and then where the fuck would they be?

“Well,” Steve says, sounding if possible more hesitant than he had before. “Fury had some thoughts about who we should sail with. Sent me to talk to Xavier about it.”

“No luck with Coulson?”

Steve turns his head, presumably to look down the beach where the _Lola_ crew is tented. “Haven’t even asked. He wants us to sail with, ah. The _Hellfire.”_

He says it the way he might say _Francois L’Olonnais_ or _King George_ or _The Devil Himself._ He says it the way Sam says _Bucky Barnes._

“Makes sense.” Sam says it mostly to irritate Steve. “They’ve got a strong ship, strong crew, and Lehnsherr really pushes the _brotherhood, brethren_ sort of thinking.” The Brethren of the Coast are long gone, but rumor has it Lehnsherr grew up in Port Royal. Of course, other word is he’s descended from the Dutch Sea Beggars. And that he worships Satan. And that his penis is two feet long when fully erect.

 _“Lehnsherr.”_ Again, like a curse.

Sam’s going to have to negotiate peace between the two crews, he’s going to have to lie by omission to his own, he’s going to have to move heaven and earth to keep them all as alive as possible, but right now he just wants to laugh.

Someone Up There certainly is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do genuinely love Steve "It didn't occur to me to save the POWs until Bucky was a POW" Rogers. 
> 
> *Francois L’Olonnais was an incredibly violent pirate of the buccaneer era (1660s.) If he really did get eaten by cannibals, most historians tend to agree he had it coming. 
> 
> I've got part one of this written, but I'm editing the chapters before I post-- that takes a while. I'm hoping to update weekly for at least a few more weeks. Comments are encouraging/motivational/the usual good things


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Erik attempt to have a conversation. Peter doesn't pee his pants. Clint proposes a battle strategy. And another meeting is held.

Charles could use a foot rub.

Instead he stares down, at the space where he doesn’t have feet, and he thinks _this isn’t real_ and _I am better than this._ Instead, he slaps at the foot of his bed where his feet aren’t, repeating _not real not real not real._ Instead, his feet burn.

He should have sent for Hank and his opium. Instead, he sent a boy to go find Erik. Instead, he’s lying in bed with the morning sun shining directly into his face, thinking _fuck fuck fuck fuck._

There’s also a chance he should have had less to drink last night, but Captain Rogers is a hard man to keep up with.

Someone bangs on the door, but it’s too fucking early for it to be Erik— and he’s right. Fury shouts about going to Harbor Island next week, Charles shouts that he should have moved into the brothel, Fury double-taps as his way of saying _go fuck yourself,_ and then he leaves.

“Could have moved into the brothel,” he says again, quieter this time. “Or the other brothel.”

He couldn’t have. Traveling just a few buildings is exhausting, and his three-legged walk doesn’t work well on stairs.

When Charles was brought off his ship for the last time, he'd been feverish and delirious, with his legs ending just above the knees. When he had woken up, it had become clear that despite the crew’s offers to help, he wouldn’t be able to truly live on a ship again, with its swaying and stairs and cluttered decks. So he'd counted his remaining money, adding in the extra he got for loss of limb, and wondered if it was enough to book him a shameful passage home.

That’s when Fury had sat down next to him, interrupting a good cycle of self-pity, and said that the two of them could build something greater, if Charles were so inclined.

“With your name, your…” he had sort of waved a hand around Charles’s face, and Charles decided to take it as a compliment, “we wouldn’t have to go through the Starks. We could sell straight to the colony markets. I have some spies in New York, Boston, Providence. We could expand down South, learn what people up there want to buy— maybe even target specific ships.”

He’d meant Charles’s family name, of course, not Charles himself. Sharon Xavier had done the smart thing, remarried a wealthy man with a better son— a respectable heir to the Xavier titles. One who didn’t enjoy opium and getting fucked by men who couldn’t keep secrets. Really, Charles couldn’t blame her. Or he didn’t, until the alternate course her decisions led him to resulted in the loss of his legs.

Which isn’t to say Charles couldn’t have gone back. Family pride, at least, would have gotten him a room and some food. Somewhere in England, away from the sea, away from the warmth, away from the men and women he’d adopted as family. Away, away, away.

Instead, he lives in Fury’s tavern and smuggles stolen goods.

They haven’t managed to work around Harbor Island and her fence colony entirely. So sometimes Charles goes and puts on a respectable face and negotiates with Howard and tries to pretend that Howard’s son isn’t an ass.

Although Anthony _has_ come up with some creative uses for gunpowder.

One of Maria’s minions brings him breakfast a few minutes later, and Charles stabs at the meat, wondering what he can say to Erik. Erik thinks Rogers is a smug holier-than-thou bastard, but Erik thinks that about every Irishman he’s ever met. He also respects Rogers, at least a little.

It’s all Charles is going to have to work with.

He mulls over how he’s going to broach this while he calculates the minimum sale price they can afford on the fabric Richards had brought in, while he tries to figure out which of their respectable ships can take it, while he wonders if they’re going to get a better price in Virginia or Carolina and realizes that he’s going to have to talk about some of this with Stark at the meeting Fury wanted.

So by the time Erik lets himself into Charles’s room, he’s come up with nothing.

Erik has clearly woken up only recently— there’s still a crease in his cheek, from a wad of fabric shoved under his head, and there are shadows under his eyes. He’s got a bundle with him, tucked under his arm.

“Morning.”

Charles nods back at him, but frowns when he’s offered the bundle. He reaches for his false leg, to stand up, but Erik waves him off and puts the thing down on the corner of Charles’s desk, next to his fake manifests. The edge of the desk is right by the bed, and really, Charles should have moved it by now because he keeps whacking his head in the morning, but it’s easier than getting a chair.

Unwrapping the bundle, Charles swallows.

It’s a chess set.

Nothing particularly ornate— lathe made, probably, not too long ago. But nothing like the one he and Erik had made out of stones and small shot.

“Found it on our last prize,” Erik says. “Nobody on the ship can play, and we all thought you might like it.”

 _We all thought_. There’s not a lie in that, really. The _Hellfire’s_ crew that remains from before his injury is still constantly trying to check up on him, trying to buy him drinks, trying to, trying trying trying.

Except Raven, who had whacked him on the shoulder and told him to suck it up.

Raven is reliable in that way.

Everyone else is— suffocating.

“You found that on your last prize?” Charles repeats, skeptical. “Because the _Asgard_ brought in one exactly like it.” He doesn’t check the black bishops to see if one of them is nicked, but Sitwell had docked them for that. “It’s been sitting in the warehouse for three weeks.”

Erik’s jaw ticks, and he looks away. There isn’t much else to look at, in Charles’s room: he’s got a small fireplace, rarely used because he has trouble getting to it. His desk. His bed. A box with one change of clothes, and a small shelf with his books and a couple tin dishes.

It’s luxurious compared to sharing a ship with sixty men.

It’s lonely compared to sharing a ship with sixty men.

“Fine,” Erik says. “They wanted to do something nice—”

“A month after you docked? They can’t keep a secret for more than a few hours.” He doesn’t know why he’s pushing it. Erik got him a present, Erik doesn’t admit that he got him a present, and Charles? Charles is just an arse who can’t let things go.

But he’s not going to let Erik buy him things like a groveling suitor who—

“Fine.” Erik crosses his arms. “The chess set isn’t yours, it’s mine, but I don’t have anywhere safe to keep it on the ship or the beach and nobody knows how to fucking play anyway, so can you do me the _favor_ of letting me store it here? Is that good enough for you, m’lord?”

Charles wants to punch him.

“Fine.”

They glare at each other.

They spent almost a year trying to be alone together in a room with a door, and were almost never successful. Now—

“What is this, Erik?”

Erik flings up his hands. “Fuck if I know. A peace offering? An attempt to, God forbid, do something nice? We’ve barely spoken since—”

(Since.)

It’s always hung between them. “And whose fault is that?”

“Yours.” Erik doesn’t hesitate. “You made it very _fucking_ clear that you wanted me to stay away from you.”

He… had, a little bit. He hadn’t wanted Erik to see him when he was delirious, or on opium— he hadn’t wanted Erik to remember him like that if he died. He hadn’t wanted Erik to hear whatever he was babbling.

And afterwards, he’d looked at Erik and seen blood.

Even now, he has trouble looking at Erik’s hands.

He’d loved those hands.

And then.

Erik deserves the truth, at least.

“When I see you, I hear screaming.”

The words land worse than a punch could have: Erik takes a step back, away from the table, away from Charles. The room is small enough that he almost hits the door.

“So that’s what you think.” Erik might look shaken, but his voice is cold. “You knew what I was planning, you _supported_ what I was planning—”

“Catching him!” If Charles could stand, he would be in Erik’s face. “Killing him! Maybe we could have made him run the gauntlet! Not whatever _in the hell_ that was!”

“You know what he did—”

“And you weren’t the only one he hurt. I didn’t see Darwin twisting the clamp!”

Erik’s nostril twitches. “I thought you blamed me for what happened to you,” he says. “It didn’t occur to me that you were upset about a piece of shit—” and here he adds a few more words in a language Charles doesn’t know— “Getting the ending he _goddamn_ deserved.”

Maybe. Of course, maybe if Erik hadn’t been so intent on torturing a man to death he would have remembered about the man’s companions and watched out for their guns. But they’d all been pretty fucking distracted.

His stumps hurt, and so do his fucking feet.

“Is that why you summoned me here?” Erik demands. “To berate me? Because I have things I need to do.”

Right.

“I need to discuss business.”

He waits to see if Erik will punch a wall. He’s done that. Taken his rage out on the hull of the _Hellfire,_ because he couldn’t really hurt it. The same can’t be said for the thin boards of the Scale.

A muscle jumps in Erik’s jaw, but he stays still.

“What,” he says. “Not in Fury’s office?”

“Not Fury business. Not officially.” Charles looks to his fake leg, but it’s too much effort to put on right now, so he remains where he is. “Captain Rogers wants to hunt a Hydra fleet. He’s looking for a consort. Fury and I thought of you.”

“Really.” He says it like he would say _go to Hell._ “And you don’t worry I’ll corrupt the noble Captain Rogers with my barbarous ways?”

Well, he can go to Hell too. “I defended you. Fury told me to hear Rogers out, and set up a meeting with you two if I thought the plan was viable. And Rogers said all the fucking things I’ve been thinking, and I defended you to him. I smiled and I drank and I made _puns.”_

Erik looks more stunned than Charles thinks he should. Through gritted teeth—“Why?”

Maybe because he wants to antagonize Erik by forcing him into proximity with someone he’s so easily annoyed by. Maybe because he buys Rogers’s line about quelling Hydra. Maybe because he wants to drive up the price of merchant goods, so they can raise the price of pirated wares while still being the cheaper option. Maybe because he doesn’t love the idea of people being taken from their homes and sold. Maybe because he wants someone competent watching out for Raven and Erik and Hank and Darwin and Alex and everyone else he left behind on the _Hellfire_. Maybe he thinks Rogers is hiding something and he wants to catch him out.

Maybe a mixture.

“Because,” Charles says. “I’m not going to let my personal feelings get in the way.”

Erik clenches his teeth even tighter. He’s missing quite a few— the top ones are going to gouge his jaw if he tries harder. “What’s the prize?”

“Slaves.”

“Charles—”

“The son-of-a-bitch wants to free them all and sell the ships. I don’t fucking know. He’s got a whole speech worked up about taking back the power of the seas— you can hear it from him, if you’re interested.”

“Interested in being Fury’s errand boy?”

“Talk to Rogers,” Charles says, “or don’t talk to Rogers, and he can find someone else.” Or Erik can talk to Rogers, find out the odds, and then accuse Charles of trying to kill him by proxy.

He wonders if Fury knows how little he and Erik have spoken, just nods there and clipped, public business meetings. If Fury assumed they were still friends. Or if this was just his idea of a joke.

“Right.” There’s still anger in Erik’s body as he faces the door, but he pauses with his hand on the latch.

“Do you want this back?” Charles gestures to the chess set, but Erik doesn’t turn. It’s not like there’s anything else Charles could have been referring to.

“No,” he says. Then— “I really did just think you would like it.”

And then he’s gone, and the door slams behind him.

_Fuck._

Charles picks up the black king, running his hand along the bulbous, curvy edges. The metal isn’t cold— nothing is cold here— but it sits heavy in his hand.

_Fuck._

He wants to throw it at the wall— he wants to smash and rage and storm out, but instead he shoves his papers out of the way so he can rest his forehead on his desk and cry.

 

* * *

 

  
Peter has been to brothels before. 

Well.

He’s _seen_ brothels before. He’s seen doors men furtively duck into, he’s had people suggest he follow them. He’s seen the impropriety always leaking out around the edges of the docks, even in places like Boston.

He hasn’t ever seen anything quite like Nassau.

The brothels here aren’t even hidden— there’s a woman standing in a doorway like some kind of advertisement, breasts shoved up over a low-cut dress. Her hair is unwashed, but it’s arranged in a way that’s passably fancy. The noonday sun is shining in her eyes, and she’s barely even squinting.

“Still haven’t worked up the nerve to go in yet?” Thompson asks, stepping around her as he leaves.

Peter grins. “You’re quick as a flash, they’re saying.” They’d been saying it about his ability to load a cannon, but— well. Thompson had only gone into the brothel half an hour earlier.

That or Peter has been dithering a lot longer than he’d thought.

“At least I had the balls to go in,” Thompson says. He stomps off towards the large tavern, and Peter follows him because he certainly can’t go to the brothel now. “Fuck’s wrong with you? No one gives a damn what you do.”

It’s not that Peter doesn’t see the logic in it, really. But that woman looked like she _knew_ things. She was at least ten years older than Peter, maybe more, maybe old enough to be his mother, and Peter has never quite felt more like a child. Even though he’s sixteen years old.

He also, and he doesn’t know how Thompson got around this, has no money. He’d made his one free drink last most of the night, but he doesn’t know what he’s going to do until they actually take a prize.

Maybe they all go on credit.

A pirate’s word is worth a lot, he’d learned from Sam. Nobody pays a ransom if there’s a chance you’ll kill the people or burn the town anyway.

(Rogers had turned to him and asked him what to do with Jameson, and with a word given Peter more power than he’d had in his entire life.)

He’d only walked by the Scale last night, but it looks a little lesser, now that it’s not the brightest light in the darkness. There’s holes in the wall and the roof and the tables look like they’re held together by hope, but people are there eating food and drinking and that’s all he imagines anyone could want from the place. He follows Thompson up to the bar.

The barmaid nods at them, then frowns. “Who are you?”

“We, uh.” Peter is aware of how young they both look, but he squares his shoulders. “Joined Captain Rogers from his last prize.”

She still stares expectantly.

“Peter Parker,” he adds, wondering if he should take her hand, or bow, or something. He’s never met a lady he has to bow to, and he’s wouldn’t think she’s one either, except for how she carries herself.

“Pleasure to meet you,” she says. “I’m Maria.” Peter doesn’t think Sam warned him about her.

“Flash Thompson,” Thompson says, shooting Peter a look. As though Peter is going to tell people his first name is—

What is it? Eustace? Peter isn’t sure.

“Welcome to Nassau, gentlemen,” Maria says, only a little sarcastically. “Would you like to open a tab?”

“Please.” Peter tries not to look like he’s wiping sweaty hands on his pants. “We don’t actually have— that is to say, I think we’re setting sail in a few days, at which point we should get money—”

“I’ll know where to find you.” Two beers land in front of their faces, followed by plates. “If you die, I’ll find your quartermaster.”

They shuffle over to a table, sticking closer together than Peter ever thought he would of his own free will. He hates Thompson, but it’s better than being along here. Still. Why the fuck did he have to volunteer as well?

 _You’re not the only one who was tired of eating maggots._ That’s easy enough.

“You’re Rogers’s new men?” a man sits down at the table with no invitation and no request. He’s got a long face and short hair and deep-set eyes that make Peter think about the knife he has and wondering if he should reach for it.

“What’s it to you?” Thompson asks, with a great deal of confidence for someone at least a foot shorter and a couple dozen pounds lighter than the person he’s talking to.

“Ain’t nothing to me.” The man squints at Thompson. “Fuck are you from?”

“London,” he says, sharp.

“Indian?” the man presses. “Spanish? Are you fucking Spanish?”

“What are you?” Peter asks. “Whoreson? Bastard?”

The man stares at him for a few seconds, and then laughs. It’s the least nice fake laugh Peter has ever heard, and it makes him for a second reconsider his choices in life— if he can’t even manage a day in Nassau, without getting killed—

“Rollins,” the man says, clearly deciding his laugh had gone on long enough. “Of the _Crossbones.”_

Peter doesn’t offer his own name.

“New blood,” Rollins continues, seeming unperturbed. “No money yet, then?”

“Last prize,” Thompson says. “Looking forward to getting some.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Rollins raises his mug in a toast. “How long are they keeping you here, then?”

“You want to know when we sail?” This doesn’t seem like a conversation they should be having. Unless Rollins’s captain and Captain Rogers are buddies, but from the way he’d approached them, it doesn’t seem like it. Peter can’t remember who the captain of the _Crossbones_ is, but that doesn’t mean he’s never heard of the man. Sometimes they change ships.

“We’ll leave when we’re ready, I suppose,” Thompson says. Something grabs Peter’s leg and he’s about to start stabbing with his small blade when he realizes it’s Thompson, giving him a warning. As though Peter isn’t catching on to what’s happening here.

“I’m sure Rogers and Wilson have a plan,” Rollins says.

“We wouldn’t know.” Peter shoves Thompson’s hand away as best he can, jabbing him as well for good measure. “We were… busy, since we came to shore.”

Rollins’s laugh seems real that time, but no less unsettling. “I’ll—”

A bang makes them all jump— a man, stomping out of one of the side rooms. Everyone around him goes quiet.

He towers over most of the people there. Broad shoulders. Reddish beard. Someone, Peter decides, he doesn’t want to cross in a fight, but the man looks like he’s ready for one.

“Lehnsherr.” Rollins’s lip curls. “You met him yet?”

“ _Woolding_ Lehnsherr?” Peter shouldn’t have said it, barely a hiss, but he’s given away his terror. If it’s true, though, everyone here should be terrified.

“The same.” If anything, Peter’s discomfort has brought Rollins’s good cheer.

Lehnsherr doesn’t move for at least a minute, and the conversations pick back up again. Peter looks down at the table, so he doesn’t see where he goes. He doesn’t want to make eye contact, in case Lehnsherr decides that his eyes should be squeezed out of his head.

“He woolded someone?” Thompson hisses.

“That’s what Old Ben sai—” There’s a hand on his shoulder.

Peter looks up very slowly.

Lehnsherr is staring down at him.

He’s not going to piss himself. He’s going to look calm and collected because he’s a pirate now. He’s a pirate and Lehnsherr is a pirate and so—

“Fuck off, Rollins,” Lehnsherr says, not even looking at him.

After a brief pause, Rollins gets up and stalks off. This doesn’t make Peter feel any better.

“Maria says you just joined up with Rogers.”

Peter looks at Thompson, who bugs out his eyes a little bit.

“We did,” he says, when Peter fails to speak.

“Great.” Lehnsherr doesn’t look like this is great. He’s barely moved any muscles in his face. “I need a word with your quartermaster.”

 

* * *

 

  
Luke’s is usually far more quiet than it had been last night— it’s the main reason Steve goes there so often, and now it’s why Sam has to wait out back like he’s taking the world’s longest piss. It’s impossible to have a private conversation at the bar.

He pops out back eventually, though, and frowns at Sam. “Fuck are you doing?”

“I have an odd question for you.”

“Jones was uninvolved with what happened to Rand,” Luke says instantly.

Sam blinks, looking around. It’s only a little past noon, which means that there are still very few signs of life. “That… wasn’t my question, but what happened to Rand?”

“Nothing.”

“Great.” Come to think of it, Sam isn’t even sure— “is Rand that curly-haired Carolinian kid who keeps talking about having been to the Orient?”

“Mm, China, I think. I don’t listen when he talks.”

Sounds wise. Sam shrugs, inhales some fish, and continues. “My actual question was: my crew has business to discuss with another crew. We were looking to do it somewhere more private than the beach— can we do it here?”

Luke dunks his bucket into the water barrel. Not sideways to fill it gradually like any other man. No, he just shoves it straight down. Sam tries not to stare at his muscles. “You can’t at the Scale?”

“Fury’s not involved.”

“Doesn’t stop him from letting out his little rooms.”

“Fury’s _not involved,_ ” Sam says, with more emphasis. That had been made clear enough. Lehnsherr had left it up to him to find a meeting place— or at least, that’s what Parker and Thompson had told him, although they'd been so terrified it was hard to understand them. 

Luke sighs. “Fine. But it’s got to be in the morning, before anyone might actually want something from me. And you have to buy drinks. Pay in advance and I’ll leave something out for you.”

Nobody’s going to like having to get up in the morning, but Sam nods. “Deal.”

“Who’s the meeting with?”

“Lehnsherr.”

Luke had been halfway turned away, but he stops, and puts his bucket down so he can cross his arms. “In that case,” he says, “I’m gonna be there. And everyone agrees beforehand that they pay right away for anything that gets broken.”

He has a point, but— “For cryin’ out loud, Luke.”

“Your captain gets into bar fights at the Scale all the time, and Lehnsherr’s no better. I’m not leaving them alone in my tavern.”

He… really, really has a point. “They won’t be alone. I’ll be there, Lehnsherr’s quartermaster will be there, whoever the fuck else we bring—”

“Great, so it can be a group fight. You want to keep drinking at my place, that’s the deal, Wilson.”

Sam considers. Luke is trustworthy, as much as any pirate— or pirate-adjacent person— is trustworthy. “Deal,” he says finally. “Tomorrow morning.”

“Dawn.”

“They’re going to kill me,” Sam warns, but Luke laughs him off.

Well, joke’s on him. He’ll have to be up at dawn, too.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam is right to be mad at him.

Steve reminds himself of this every few minutes. Sam is right. Steve is wrong. Steve is also right, a little bit, but not, perhaps, enough.

It’s just—

Bucky could easily be dead by now.

The worst lot in the ocean is to be a slave. That’s easy. The second worst might be more of a debate, but Steve’s money is on crewing a slaver. Near three in ten of them die every voyage, he’s heard. From Disease. Overwork. Abusive captains.

There’s a hundred times Bucky could have died between when the logbook was written and now.

But he wouldn’t have left Steve, had their positions switched, and Steve’s not going to leave him.

That’s easy, too.

Steve just hadn’t realized he’d been choosing between Bucky and Sam. Because he can’t leave Sam, either.

So he’s going to do his best to make it up to him. Starting with feeding his bird.

He’s on a boat now, going over with the Banner and Barton to replace the watch. Spend the night on board before the meeting at the arsecrack of morning. It’s a good thing. He gets nervous if he doesn’t set foot on the _Avenger_ for too many days.  And Redwing will shit on everything if left unattended. 

“How long we think we’re gonna be on land for?” Banner asks.

“I heard about some merchant ship to Boston,” Clint says. “We sail north—”

“We were thinking of going after a Hydra fleet.” Steve waits a second while they both blink at him. “If we can get another crew to sail with us. What do you think?”

Banner and Clint look at each other over the oars, and then back to Steve.

“Can I use my bow and arrows?” Clint asks.

“For fuck’s sake, Barton,” Banner begins.

“It’s quiet, I can reload faster than a musket—”

“Between you and the Swordsmen I don’t know how we’re even functional—”

“If there’s a reasonable excuse to shoot someone with a bow and arrow,” Steve says, “then you can shoot someone with a bow and arrow.”

“Then I’d be honored to take a Hydra fleet with you, Captain.”

That was easy.

He hasn’t explained the particulars, of course, but it’s good to know that the men aren’t going to balk at the very concept. Or at least, Clint isn’t. As long as he can shoot his fucking bow and then go around looking for his arrows on the prize ship while most men are looking for the money. Steve doesn’t really have the power to stop him. He just doesn’t stop anyone else from ridiculing him either.

“Smashing Hydra could be fun,” Banner says. He catches the ladder as it falls and starts to climb out of the boat.

That’s two, then.

In what he chooses to see as a sign of good prospects, Steve climbs aboard and makes his way through the hammocks, noting that Redwing has managed to shit on every single one.

 

* * *

 

In some parts, it would be considered too early for drinking. It’s a good thing they’re not in those parts, because so far everyone in this room seems to hate everyone else in this room. It’s going to be a good and productive time, and Sam helps himself to a second cup of punch, showing Redwing’s head out of the way as she goes for a sip.

He’s trying to hide how angry he still is with Steve and Nat, but it doesn’t look like he’s fooling Charles Xavier. Which is fine, because Xavier and Lehnsherr’s attempts to look friendly are failing. Meanwhile, Lehnsherr’s quartermaster— a man with lots of black hair who insists on being called Azazel, although his mother couldn’t possibly have given him that name— hasn’t looked once at Darkholme, who is staring down Hank Pym like she can’t look at anyone else but wants to start a fight.

Also, it’s damn early.

The table is square, but the two crews have managed to each shove themselves together on opposite sides, with Xavier sitting awkwardly at one end. Sam weighs the pros and cons of putting his feet on it, and decides against.

“Well,” he says, because he’s the quartermaster of the crew with the request so he should probably speak. “We asked you here to negotiate sailing in consort to capture a Hydra Company fleet. Can I assume by your presence that you’re amenable to that negotiation?”

“Hang on,” Pym interrupts. Sam resists the urge to jab him in the side. “What’s _he_ doing here? I thought Fury was out.”

“I’m here to mediate,” Xavier says. Lehnsherr does something that looks like an aborted snort, and Darkholme leans forward.

“Problem?” she asks.

“No,” Pym says wisely.

“Xavier was kind enough to arrange a meeting,” Sam says, even though technically he was the one that did the arranging and Parker and Thompson were the ones who got pinged back and forth like errand boys. Luke is standing in the corner pretending like he’s not listening in, but he catches Sam’s eye, makes a face. Sam twitches an eyebrow back at him.

Luke probably won’t betray them. The _Avenger_ crew is his best source of income.

“Yes,” Lehnsherr says. “Thanks for that _arranging,_ Charles.”

Sam really wants to share a long-suffering look with Steve, but he’s still angry at Steve, so he grits his teeth and waits.

“Tell me about the fleet,” Lehnsherr says after a tense second.

Sam leans back and Steve leans forward, logbook open. Not the page with Bucky’s name. And he’s holding it open in a way that will discourage Lehnsherr from touching it.

“It says here, and we’ve got no reason to doubt, that there’s three ships. The biggest one, the _Valkyrie,_ is captained by Zola. We can safely estimate that it has sixty or so slaves on board. The second one, the _Sokovia_ , a particular Captain von Strucker. Could probably carry a maximum of forty— our guess is, ah. Women and children, but we can’t be sure. The third is the _Maltese,_ and one Captain Ian Quinn. Probably used more for scouting and carrying messages, maybe some defense. Unlikely to have prisoners on board. Based on other Hydra ships, we think it’s safe to assume at least ten guns on the _Valkyrie_ , maybe up to sixteen. Eight or so on the others.”

“Right.” Darkholme leans back and plants one smelly foot on the table, just like Sam had been considering. The picture of leisure. Damn. “And the money?”

“The value of the ships alone would more than cover any cost of the venture,” Sam says. “And Von Strucker comes from a prominent family likely to pay a ransom. Quinn as well.”

“Is that the Quinn that Coulson’s team had a fight with a year or so back?” Xavier asks, taking the logbook away from Steve before Steve can object. He doesn’t turn any pages. “If it is, it might be worth talking to him, seeing if he knows anything about the _Maltese.”_

Natasha scoops up more punch. “If it’s the same Quinn, then he’s the guy who shot Johnson. Might be this one’s personal.”

“We did talk about taking a few of his crew on, if we need more men,” Steve adds. “Seeing as they’re stuck.”

Lehnsherr fiddles with a coin. “We keep adding people, word’s going to get out. Might lose any bit of surprise, and we’re going to need surprise.”

“Word’s going to get out if we sail together anyway,” Steve points out. “Apparently Jack Rollins tried to question two of my men this morning. We’re going to need to go fast.”

“Hmm.” Lehnsherr balances the coin on end and flicks it, letting it spin. “Talk about weapons on our side. The _Avenger_ has fourteen guns?”

“And two swivels, plus a third we can mount on one of the piraguas. The _Hellfire_ has sixteen?”

“And a swivel.” Lehnsherr and Steve stare each other down for a second, and Sam’s a little tempted to pull out a measuring line. Instead he looks to Natasha.

She raises her eyebrows a bit.

“We’re not going to want to get into a broadside battle,” Pym cuts in. “Not if we want to sell those ships easily.”

“And Hydra doesn’t surrender.” Darkholme puts her other foot on the table, crossing them at the ankles. “They’ll have to think we can match them, or more. Keep them from firing first.”

Steve huffs. “What, bluff? They can fire chain-shot at our masts, but we can’t at theirs, because we don’t want to replace them?”

“Well, we _don’t_ want to replace them,” Sam says. “We have to stay out of position of their broadsides, or keep them from firing at all. Keep it to muskets until we can board.”

“How do we keep them from firing?” Azazel demands. “Piss in their powder?”

Everyone stops to consider this.

“Piss!” Redwing says happily.

“If we could get someone on board, we might be able to stop them from firing,” Lehnsherr says slowly.

“If we’re close enough to board they aren’t—” Steve stops. “Oh. You mean get someone on board in advance. Send out a canoe with a distress call, maybe? They can can say they’ve escaped?”

Darkholme scoffs. “Nobody is going to believe that.”

Everyone turns to look at her. Then at Natasha.

“Oh,” Nat says. “I see where this is going. But I don’t know how either of us could fuck with the guns without anyone noticing. We’d just blow them up, and then we’re back at the first problem about wrecking the ships.”

Xavier taps the table a few times. “I can’t believe I’m suggesting this,” he says. “But you might want to talk to Stark. I’m going to Harbor Island, day after tomorrow. No harm in taking a couple more.”

“Stark doesn’t love me,” Lehnsherr says, at the same time Steve says “Howard? Howard’s great.”

Looking between the two of them, Xavier shrugs. “I guess Captain Rogers comes, then. And a man from the _Hellfire_ , of course, to make sure everything is above board.”

“Going back to the money, aren’t we kind of missing the obvious part?” Pym asks. “Wouldn’t we make a hell of a lot more if we actually sold the cargo?”

Sam bites the inside of his cheek, keenly aware of being outnumbered. He wishes Lehnsherr had brought Darwin. Instead, he settles for another side-eye with Luke. If he intervenes, he’s going to look irrational—

“No offense,” Pym says, looking at a point directly over Sam’s head. “I don’t _like_ it, but it’s gonna be easier to convince the crews to go with this plan if we’re making the most money for it.”

“Yes.” Steve’s voice is thick with sarcasm. “We stand up there and tell the prize crew we stand for freedom, and meanwhile, we sell other people into a lifetime of servitude. There’s no hypocrisy there at all.”

“Rumlow’s crew brought in a hundred thousand dollars doin’ that. It’s not like no one does it.”

“Rumlow also once set fire to his ship, some of his crew, and himself,” Sam points out. “But by all means, if you think your talents would be better served on Rumlow’s crew, you’re free to leave.” It’s a gamble, because they do need Pym more than he needs them— good carpenters are a damn boon— but Pym has a nice enough life on the _Avenger_ that he’s not likely to get on the _Crossbones._ Sure enough, he shrinks away.

“It’s not just symbolic,” Xavier says. “Freeing them could cause fear among plantation owners in Jamaica and the colonies, and slave traders out of Africa. If we can drive up the price of slaves, we can drive up the cost of sugar, tobacco, cotton. Then we can raise our own prices and still be the cheaper option. Make more money in the future.”

Most pirates don’t have time to think in the long term. And Sam isn’t sure how much of what Xavier is saying can be backed up by economic reality, but he appreciates him for saying it.

“And what better 'fuck you'?” Lehnsherr asks. “We’re so rich, we don’t even need your cargo.”

Steve tilts his head. “Does that mean you’re in?”

Lehnsherr looks to Darkholme, before Azazel. “It means,” he says, “that we’re willing to negotiate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that one-week estimate was cute. Life is happening real hard, my guys. Today's chapter is sponsored by Work Stress and the Pacific Rim trailer soundtrack.


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard gets surprise visitors. Erik runs into a threat.

When Steve had thought about what the journey to take Hydra would entail, he’d imagined more swashbuckling and fewer meetings. But, five days after returning to Nassau, he’s in a one-sail canoe on his way to Harbor Island. Specifically, he’s the one doing the sailing, because his only companions are Xavier and McCoy.

McCoy is tall and gangly in the way that Steve used to be, constantly squinting at things at picking at his fingernails. But Steve supposes he can’t ask for much. Surgeons are always in short supply. When found, they’re the most valuable thing on a prize.

“—Meeting with Howard about some… trade issues,” Xavier is saying. He’s got a look like he knows Steve isn’t listening, but the sun is also shining directly into his face, so Steve isn’t going to spend too long parsing the expression. “We might also want to talk to his son. Have either of you had that particular pleasure?”

“Can’t say that I have.” Steve steers them towards the dock. “Although Coulson has some stories.”

“Just… don’t act like you like Howard.”

“I do like Howard.”

“Don’t _act_ like it,” Xavier says, managing to make that sentence unsettling as hell. ‘Unsettling as Hell’ seems to be Xavier’s chosen epithet, though, so Steve just reminds himself again to keep an eye on the man.

Like Nassau, Harbor Island is built on sand and stolen goods.

Unlike Nassau, it looks respectable. Smells respectable. The perfect place for a merchantman to stop, to make deals, to ferry goods to the colonies or Jamaica or back to England. Populated by good men— not favorite sons, any of them, but with names famous and dignified enough to make everything seem in order.

“You could move here,” Steve says when he helps Xavier out of the boat. ‘Call me Hank’ McCoy twitches, but doesn’t say anything, instead collecting Xavier’s bag. “Make Fury’s fence look more… legal.”

“Harbor Island,” Xavier says as though it’s the beginning of a great story, “is for men who want to pretend they aren’t pirates.” He takes his second crutch from Hank and tucks it under his arm, beginning his three-legged walk. “I, on the other hand, have the advantage of being at peace with exactly what I am. And the drinks in Nassau are cheaper.”

“You haven’t paid for a drink since you had legs,” Hank says, and Charles pauses his walk to to pat Hank on the arm.

“Exactly.”

They make their way, slowly, up the dock. Steve wonders if he should offer to help, but Xavier doesn’t give any indication that he’d welcome such a thing, and McCoy, who knows him better, hasn’t said anything.

Eventually, they reach a balding man with a hat that has failed to spare his chin from the sunburn.

“Harbormaster,” Xavier says politely.

“Name? Ship? Length of stay?”

Xavier sighs. “You know me, Stanley.”

“Name? Ship? Length of stay?”

“Charles Xavier and companions, ship has no name but it’s that piragua over there, and if I’m here more than six hours please send a man to Stark’s house to kill me.” He hands the harbormaster a couple coin, and they get nodded onto the beach, and then the path.

There are a few boats on the beach, and a few ships in the harbor, but that’s where the similarities to Nassau end. Most of the merchantmen stay at the inn or on their ships, no one is leaving carcasses to rot in the sun, and while the residents must drink as much as any other people, they don’t do it obviously. Instead they live in large frame houses, closer to the manors in London than the shacks and shanties of Nassau or the farmhouses of New Providence Island’s interior.

Two of the houses overlook the water, albeit from a good distance apart. One belongs to Harold Meachum and his family. The other belongs to the Starks.

It’s easy to tell which is which.

The Starks’ house looks like it had once been a small but stately manor that someone had just kept adding rooms to, and decorated them to whatever mood happened to strike their fancy. Part of it looks like it was inspired by carved ship decorations twenty years of style. To the left is a boxy addition of clean lines and neat paint, and jutting out the back is something Steve would think was a tiny Catholic cathedral, save for the fact that the Starks are Protestant.

By the doorway is a giant wooden rabbit statue.

The path up to the door is smooth enough that Xavier doesn’t seem to have any trouble with it, but they still move slowly in tune to the _tap tap thud_. Steve wishes Sam were here, because Sam would have thought the bunny was the funniest thing, but Sam’s not here and also Sam is mad at him.

_(Tell me what I want to hear.)_

(Steve shouldn’t have said anything at all. He’d tried to make Sam understand that he was telling the truth, but it’s all the truth. Steve would die for Bucky and Steve would die for Sam and Steve would die for his crew and all those things can be true at the same time, until they’re at odds with one another.)

Xavier knocks three times on the front door. Two knocks light, one heavy— the same rhythm as his walk. It’s hard to say if he notices.

The woman who opens the door has red-blonde hair neatly pulled back, and a carefully neutral expression.

“Charles Xavier,” Xavier says, all smiles and charm. “Here to see Howard Stark.”

Steve smiles as well. He’s afraid it looks more like a grimace, but in all fairness, she must be used to people grimacing when faced with the prospect of the Starks. He likes Howard, but he knows what most people think.

“Come in,” she says, directing them to a sitting room. “Is Mr. Stark expecting you?”

“Yes. He’s not expecting my friends. It was a, ah, last minute emergency.”

“Of course.” She purses her lips like she wants to say something else, but strides off into a side room.

Steve sits down in one of the chairs that had been offered. It doesn’t really look like it can hold his weight, so he leans forward onto his feet just in case. Xavier seems to have no such reservations— he’s swung his entire self into one of the padded armchairs, rubbing at the spot his fake leg meets his thigh and grimacing.

Hank stands behind him, eyes darting around. Exit to chairs to a crystal pitcher to the exit again. Maybe he has better fighting instincts than Steve had assumed.

For all that the outside of the house is decorated, the parlor itself isn’t all that much to look at. There are a couple paintings on the walls— one that Steve recognizes from a prize Coulson had taken— and a couple shelves, candlesticks, the pitcher Hank was eyeing. There are no portraits of illustrious family members, nor overly decorated wooden screens.

Steve looks back to his companions. Hank’s gaze has moved on to the candlesticks, and Xavier couldn’t seem to care any less about the decor. He’s started fiddling with one of the straps of his prosthetic.

“Steve!” Someone bellows, and he jumps a little before realizing it’s Howard. Grey, old Howard, moving like a man twenty years younger. Steve rises to meet him and a hand hits his back, stronger than he’d expected. “You didn’t announce yourself, you dog! How have you been?”

He whacks Howard’s back in return. “Can’t complain,” he says, even if he has a list of complaints to rival Lamentations. Another shake, then Howard turns.

“Charles!” The enthusiasm here sounds a little more forced, and Steve tries not to feel smug.

“Howard.” Xavier shakes his hand. “Shall we?”

 

* * *

 

  
The chair in Howard’s office is just the right depth to put pressure on a particularly painful part of Charles’s leg. Which is perfect, really. Just as good as he could hope for.

It hurts like a son of a bitch.

But he grits his teeth and smiles at Howard, and waits as Rogers introduces Hank. There’s a workshop somewhere in this building, he knows— if Hank sees it, Erik might lose his ship’s doctor to chemistry. Charles might have supported this, if he wasn’t relying on Hank to keep Raven and Scott and Alex and Jean and, fine, Erik, alive.

“Charles, Steve, you’ve met my associate? Obadiah Stane?”

Charles can’t be fucked to remember, but he leans forward and shakes the man’s hand. “Briefly, perhaps.” Stane doesn’t look uncomfortable in _his_ chair. Neither do Howard, Rogers or Hank. The room is far more lavish than the one downstairs, and maybe that confers comfort. Charles’s mother had certainly thought so.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Stane says. “Again, perhaps.”

They all share a good chuckle.

But everyone remembers Charles, since a man with no legs is a novelty. The same can’t be said for merchants. The top of Stane’s head is bald and white, but there are no tan lines from a hat or bandanna: if he spends time outside, it’s not much.

Not that Charles is looking too weathered himself, these days.

“So…” Howard looks from Rogers to Charles and back again. Hank, he seems to ignore. “You’re… all here to discuss the shipment of tobacco?”

“That’s just me, I’m afraid,” Charles says. “We did recently come into a large supply, and you know how that can cause trouble with shipping. And there's a matter of some cloth. But I’m afraid those are the lesser reasons.”

Howard leans back, without ceding control of the room. “Alright,” he says slowly. “What can I do for you?”

Charles gestures at Hank, who hands over his bag. From it, he digs out the musket ball and puts it on the desk. “This was pulled from the stomach of Davey Johnson of the _Lola_ about ten months ago. Fired by Hydra Captain Ian Quinn. Your make.”

Howard looks at the ball, but doesn’t pick it up. Rogers shifts a little in his seat. Clears his throat. He’s probably mad that Charles didn’t warn him in advance about what was going on.

“Anyone can make a musket ball,” Stane says.

Charles continues. “On July 15th, the crew of the _Gift_ reported attempting to take a Hydra ship. The _Sentinel._ More than half of them died, the rest nearly so— Hydra, it turned out, had some very effective grenades. Shrapnel and fire. We were able to pry some of the casing out where it got lodged in the wood.” His next show is a curved piece of metal that had once been part of a sphere. There’s a small _S_ stamped into it. “Looks a lot like one of yours.

“Six months ago, near Carolina, the _Lola_ was chased again by Quinn. More of those grenades. More recently, part of Carter’s fleet— the _Intrepid,_ the _Hazard,_ and the _Directorate_ , have all stared down the wrong end of your weapons, which which Captain Carter is familiar enough to identify.”

“Is she alright?”

“Mr. Stark,” Stane snaps, just as Rogers says, “she’s fine.” Howard and Rogers squint at each other for a minute, and Charles sighs.

“The _Directorate_ had to be sunk. She replaced it with…”

“The _Dragon,_ ” Rogers says. “The others both made it through.”

“What is the point,” Stane asks, “of this little show?”

Charles folds his hands. “I thought we had an agreement, Howard. Your competitors get… harassed, prices stay up, and your ships all receive safe passage. That’s a delicate balance easily upset if you’re also cutting deals with the Hydra Company.” He flicks the grenade. “If you’re giving them better weapons than we have, we can’t keep up our end.”

 _“We?”_ Stane snorts. “There’s a _we_ among pirates? They don’t answer to you, they don’t work for you. They certainly don’t work for us, do they, Captain Rogers?”

“That’s the point of a mutually beneficial arrangement.” Rogers puts on a bland smile that Coulson and Charles’s mother would both be proud of. “There’s loyalty among pirates, Stane. Even Howard can attest to that. We look out for ourselves, but we also look out for one another. Howard’s friendship with us means that we look out for him, but if the men get the sense that the Starks are friends no longer, well, you’re right. I lead my men because they chose me to do so. They don’t work for me, and they don’t work for Charles.”

“Is that a threat?” If he were a braver man, Stane and his unsightly beard would be up in Rogers’s face. Instead, he just hunches forward in what is probably an attempt to be menacing.

But Charles has seen more terrifying men. Charles has loved more terrifying men.

“What Captain Rogers is saying,” Charles says, “is that it’s in your best interests for people like Captain Carter, Captain Lehnsherr, Captain Coulson, Captain Richards, to continue to see you as an ally. I’m sure you wouldn’t want them as enemies, and no, Mr. Stane, that’s not a threat. Just an observation.”

“Obie,” Howard says, before Stane can respond. “Could you go please see if you can find Tony? We’ll need him to confirm these.”

“Isn’t that what the butler is for?” Stane hisses. He and Howard stare at each other, but then Stane glides out. Smooth on two legs, but with an air like he’d rather be stomping.

Charles’s legs hurt.

His feet hurt.

He turns back to Howard and smiles again.

Howard holds up a finger, and together they listen to Stane’s footsteps retreat down the hall.

“Steve,” Howard says. “You can’t really believe I’m dealing with Hydra.”

“I certainly don’t want to believe that.” Rogers has dropped the steely facade. “What the hell is happening?”

“Tony will have to tell us for sure, but I don’t think those grenades should even be out there. With the thin casings? That’s something he’s been working on— he makes weapons when he can’t sleep, I’ve stopped asking him about it— but they shouldn’t be in _production,_ much less on a Hydra ship. As for the others… sometimes a prize will turn around on you, take your stuff? That could explain some of the guns.”

“Not the great guns Carter saw,” Charles says. “We know when those go missing.”

“It could explain Quinn.” Howard finally picks up the musket ball. “I’m relying on your word that the musket was ours.”

“Coulson isn’t exactly ready to believe the worst of you,” Rogers points out. “None of us are. That’s why we’re here instead of setting your business on fire.”

Clever, clever man.

Unless he truly means it, in which case, Rogers is an idiot.

“But that’s not actually why I came,” and Rogers rubs a hand through his hair. “I actually came to ask you about other weapons. We’re planning on hitting a Hydra fleet, and we’d like them to, ideally, not fire all their guns at us. We want to damage the ships as little as possible.”

“A Hydra _fleet?”_ Howard repeats.

Rogers shrugs. “You’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain by us doing that. They’re a competitor. We didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I don’t, especially if they’re stealing from me. Us. The company. But they’re just as likely to kill all of you.” Howard sounds genuinely upset by this.

“Hopefully, they won’t do that. That’s why we’re asking you. Our current plan is for a couple of our crewmen to pretend to be hostages, stage an escape,” and if Rogers were anyone else Charles would be dragging him out of here by now because Howard could run to Hydra with this, what the fuck, but Charles cant do that here, especially in front of Howard, especially with _no fucking legs._ “Then if possible they would sabotage the great guns. At the least. Have you guys found anything that will do that?”

Howard spreads his hands. “Piss in their powder?”

Behind them, a door opens— Stane comes back in with an agitated butler, and a soot covered figure that Charles takes a second to recognize as Anthony Stark. He’s wearing a sleeveless shirt and pants barely held up by a rope, and it looks better on him than logic would suggest.

“We’d like to find a more… subtle option,” Rogers is saying.

“To stop the gun from firing.” Howard looks to Tony expectantly.

“Smear some tar inside,” Tony says. “They try and fire and, boom, it explodes.”

“We’re also trying not to damage the ship.”

“Throw their cannonballs overboard? Who are these people? I was busy.”

Charles looks at the decorative wallpaper and thinks wistfully about banging his head against it.

 

* * *

 

Tony drags a chair around to his father’s side of the desk, and sits. He’s getting soot on it and he’s decided he doesn’t give a single damn, because they’re the ones that interrupted him in the first place. It also gives him a good spot to survey Captain Rogers, the man Howard never stops talking about. Like they’re best friends, or something.

Well. Not _never_ stop. But in the right company, he’ll lean forward, he’ll say, _Captain Rogers, you know, I once had a drink with him,_ or _Captain Rogers once told me,_ or _Captain Rogers,_ or _Captain Rogers._

What’s infuriating is that _Captain Rogers_ seems to be just as friendly with Howard as was implied. Lots of smiles and quiet joking and casual demeanor. Although from the wide-eyed way the scrawny one is watching, maybe Rogers doesn’t talk about Howard as much as Howard talks about him. The idea of it makes Tony happy, in a vindictive sort of way.

Of course, Captain Rogers has more places than Howard to find friends.

Enough friends to think that he can take on a Hydra Company fleet without damaging the boats in the attempt. Tony grinds his teeth, trying and failing to make eye contact with Jarvis so they could agree on how stupid this all is. But Jarvis has taken up a post by the door, as though he’s going to have to defend them from someone.

“Well, then just let them fire on you but don’t fire back.”

Rogers is glaring at him, and oh, look, he’s not just a fuzzy old pirate. Fuck, he’s probably younger than Tony. “Yes,” he drawls, “let’s do that.” But Tony’s stopped paying attention to him, because there’s an array of shot on the desk, and he recognizes it. He reaches forward and snags a piece of what had once been the casing of a grenade— he’d spent weeks on this, trying to find an alloy brittle enough for maximum destruction but solid enough to be safe to throw.

“Where did this come from?”

“A Hydra ship,” Howard says.

“How?”

“That was my question.” Xavier turns to stare at him. “I hear you designed this particular grenade, Mr. Stark. Any idea how Captain Trask and the _Sentinel_ could have gotten their hands on them?”

Tony tightens his grip on the piece before he remembers how fucking sharp it is. Little spots of blood grow on his palms, and he wipes them on his pants.

“Are you accusing Mr. Stark of something?” Obie demands. Good old Obie.

“Well if Howard didn’t sell it, and Anthony didn’t sell it, then you certainly got a problem.” It’s the skinny kid whose name Tony didn’t catch. He doesn’t look like a pirate. He doesn’t look like much of anything. “And if Hydra has these, and none of you can tell us how to defend against them, then _we_ got a problem.”

“Hank,” Charles says quietly. Hank goes quiet.

“Well we can’t just come up with a way to defend against our weapons, that defeats the point of the weapons.” Obie sounds like a kind teacher, and Tony hates it when he does that. “And it’s not as though Anthony can just go with you to investigate the guns himself.”

Oh.

Tony leans forward. “I could.”

Obie slaps a hand over his eyes and sighs. “Are you joking?” He looks to Jarvis, as though Jarvis is going to be helpful, as though Jarvis didn’t sail with Captain Carter once on Howard’s request.

Howard, who is looking at Tony with thoughtful eyes.

If someone is stealing from them, if someone in London is smuggling their weapons to Hydra, then what better way to find out than to investigate not one but three Hydra Company ships? It might not tell them anything, but they’ll be better off than they are here, waiting for more angry pirates to demand answers that they don’t have. Waiting for London to set the Navy on them. Waiting for the world they’ve built here to break.

“All due respect, Mr. Stark,” Rogers says, “but—”

“Mr. Stark is my father,” Tony says. “Call me Stark.”

Rogers does not look amused.

“The plan is fake hostages, letting the ship be intercepted by Lehnsherr,” Xavier says. He’s considering him, too. “I suppose you’d be a good one.”

“A well-to-do merchant with reward money to give? Of course. Even if one of you dressed the part, you’d still look like sailors.”

“If word gets out that I kidnapped Anthony Stark, even if I didn’t, there’s going to be fucking chaos,” Rogers says.

“So tell them I’m someone else.” Tony looks too much like Howard, and he hates how much he looks like Howard, but that doesn't mean it might not be useful. “I’m Howard’s nephew, or second cousin, and I’m coming from Stark Industry’s London Headquarters to investigate why my wayward patriarch is selling to pirates. I’ve got orders with a Stark seal, and everything. But word gets out about my mission, and on the way my ship is taken by pirates— pirates Howard is notoriously friendly with, that can’t be a coincidence, he must have set them on me—”

“And you make it sound like your safe delivery to Harbor Island will make you good friends with the Hydra Company,” Howard finishes. “And while you’re at it, you’d like to know if they’ve experienced anything amiss with me, so that you’ll have testimony to use in my removal, and to return the Stark name to legitimate, perhaps even Hydra-friendly, business.” He doesn’t have the same jovial air talking to Tony as he does talking about his pirate friends. But he’s worried, he’s clearly worried.

And if someone is sneaking Tony’s blueprints off to London, it has to be someone with eyes here. And perhaps the best thing for that is for Tony to not be here creating things, just for a bit. There are so many people in this house— and it can’t be Pepper, it can’t be Rhodey or Jarvis or Obie or Happy, but that still leaves dozens of caretakers and ship captains and sailors.

Christ.

“I don’t think I need to tell either of you,” Xavier says carefully, “how dangerous this would be. There’s almost definitely going to be a fight, and that’s not including the hazards of sailing and weather.”

“I’d like a word with Tony. Can you—” Howard glances at Xavier. “We’ll be back in a moment.”

The way the room is set up, it means Tony has to walk past them all— squeeze around Hank’s chair, brush past Obie and Jarvis, feel all their eyes on him as he goes. It’s embarrassing. He should be able to make this decision without his father, but Howard is technically the head of the company, and maybe they can discuss something like adults just this once.

They step into the dining room and close the door: they should have gone father, maybe, but years of spying on his father with his ear on the dining room wall has taught Tony exactly how loud he can speak.

“I’m not making you do this,” Howard says.

Tony sneers, sitting down on the table and putting his feet on one of the chairs. “That’s because you couldn’t.” He shouldn’t turn this into an argument. Can’t turn this into an argument. He’ll have lots of people to fight later, it would seem.

“I couldn’t,” his father agrees. He looks softer around the eyes than Tony has seen him of late, and he wonders if this, too, is a manipulation.

“Do you want me to go?” he asks.

Howard turns away from him for a second, rubbing his hands over his face. “It’s your choice,” he says. “It’s— it’s a chance to find out what’s going on. If it was just about harassing Hydra, I’d say no. But Jesus, Tony, some of the things you’ve made—” _they’re your responsibility,_ he doesn’t say, which is good because when some of Howard’s weapons had gone missing a few years back he’d chosen to send fucking Jarvis and Peggy after them. “If they have that stuff, they should damn well be paying us for them.”

“Do you really trust Rogers? And Xavier? And _Lehnsherr?”_

Howard rubs his face again. His hair is so grey, now. Tony is having trouble remembering when it was brown. His father has gotten old, and Tony barely noticed.

“I trust Rogers. I trust Xavier to look out for his business interests. But that doesn’t matter, because a pirate ship is a damn democracy. The crew could vote you overboard at any damn point.”

That’s an element Tony hadn’t really considered. “Do you think they would?”

“I don’t know. There’s a thousand ways you could get hurt or die.”

“There are thousand things that could kill us here, too,” Tony points out.

Howard laughs. “The ocean kills,” he says. “Storms, falling, a hundred men on a boat and illness going around, no help for miles. There’s nothing on land like it.”

 _There’s nothing on land here at all._ Not if we don’t figure this out.

“You trust your good friend Steve to keep me alive?”

“Steve is my friend. You’re my son. If it comes down to it— if it’s you or them, or you or me, I need your word that you’ll pick you.”

Tony stares. “Your friends,” he manages.

“Are my friends. You’re my son. Promise me.”

Tony does.

“Good.” Howard nods a few times. “Good. Let’s… go back in, figure out how we’re going to do this, then.”

 

* * *

 

 

Erik leans away from the fire, nose raw from the heat. He’s always been warmer than the people around him, but looking at Drake huddled up close to the flames like they’re freezing in a European winter— it’s ridiculous. It’s plenty warm in the night air already.

Raven, at least, seems to agree. She’s a few feet back, sharpening a sword. Not with any level of intent, or determination— just something to do, some way to feel busy. She’s a unique pirate, in that regard. And others.

Quiet footsteps shuffle up the beach behind him, and Erik turns: the fire has ruined his chance at making out more than a silhouette, but the small stature is enough to identify Charles’s favorite errand boy.

And sure enough— “He wants to talk to you,” the boy mumbles. What the hell is his name? Kurt?

Erik looks over to Drake, but Drake is doing a good job of poking the dirt out from between his toes and not looking as though he’s paying any mind. Raven _schnicks_ her blade a little more emphatically.

“I’ll be at the Scale in a bit,” Erik says, even though what he wants to say is _he can’t send for me like I’m one of his goddamn minions or a goddamn whore._

“Not at the Scale,” maybe-Kurt says, eyes stuck on the ground. “Up the beach, by the Hulk wreck. Come alone.”

How the hell is Charles going to get there? Erik narrows his eyes. “I’ll be there in a little while.”

Maybe-Kurt nods once, and then scampers off into the darkness.

Odd that Charles isn’t having this meeting at Luke’s again, but this isn’t the hour for a private meeting at Luke’s. It seems like something he should bring Raven and Azazel to, at the very least, if they’re going to talk about what he learned from Stark. But if whatever happened has to be discussed by a wreck at night, it can’t be good news.

“Son of a fuck,” he mutters, turning back to the fire.

Drake looks up, as though he’s only just realized Erik is there. Smug bastard. “What was that about?”

Charles wants Erik away from other people, which means he’s either going to have Erik killed, wants Erik to kill someone else, or he wants Erik to suck his cock.

He could just not go.

He doesn’t like how it looks, sneaking away to talk to Charles and maybe other captains, away from the eyes of his crew.

And Erik is really good at saying no to Charles. But only in person.

He hadn’t even seen Charles’s boat come in.

“I don’t know,” he tells Drake, getting to his feet. In a lower voice he adds, “Raven, shadow me?”

She raises an eyebrow. “You expecting trouble?”

“And if there’s _not_ trouble?” Drake looks like he’s trying to wink, but doesn’t have the appropriate muscle control. Erik isn’t even going to dignify that with a response, so he turns and makes his way across the sand. It gives under his feet, makes him a little unsteady. A few seconds later, Raven will wander into the shadows, trail him at a distance: close enough to intervene but far enough that she won’t be noticed if they never need to know she’s there.

Erik doesn’t know what he wants more. Maybe Charles wants to finish their argument from earlier, in which case, Erik doesn’t have much to say besides _fuck you_ and _at least I tried_ and _can you just let me try and do something nice for once in your goddamn life._ But Charles probably won’t. He’d entertain the idea that Charles wants to apologize, but he doesn’t think Charles has ever apologized to him.

 _Keep it together._ Charles probably wants to tell him about the suspect deal he’s made, and it’s going to be Erik’s job to make sure it doesn’t look suspect. He’s going to have to convince the crew, and it’s not going to help if they all think he and Charles are being cozy together.

Shit.

The Hulk wreck is at the edge of the beach, a rotting behemoth. Word is that the hole in the side is from Bruce Banner flinging himself against it, although it’s rotted enough that even a gentle touch might make the sides cave inward. Banner isn’t special.

Didn’t stop everyone from calling him the Hulk Smasher, though.

Banner is a strange man, but this island is full of strange men, the kind his mother might have warned him against had they lived anywhere besides Port Royal.

Erik stops next to Banner’s hole, and looks around. It’s not impossible for Charles to have made it down here, but it would have been a long and laborious process. He could wait, but he’s not going to sit around _waiting_ —

“Holla,” someone says.

It’s not Charles.

And Erik realizes that maybe-Kurt had never specifically said it was Charles in the first place.

Erik is a fucking idiot.

He puts a hand on his cutlass and looks around.

He should have brought a torch, but he hadn’t thought that he’d want to be seen. Someone is moving near him, and he turns, blade out— and the figure steps into the moonlight. He’s about Erik’s height, with short black hair and a mangled face.

Erik doesn’t lower his sword. “Rumlow?”

This might be a good time for Raven to show up.

“Lehnsherr,” Rumlow says. The burns by his mouth twist when he speaks. “Not who you expected?”

“I wasn’t told who to expect,” he says, even as he thinks _if Charles set me up I’m going to kill him._ Charles isn’t angry enough to want him dead, is he? To replace him with _Rumlow?_ But if they’re changing the plan and need to take out the people who know there’s a plan at all—

“Very trusting.” There’s mockery in Rumlow’s voice, and a tone Erik doesn’t much care for.

“I trust myself,” he says instead. It’s a perfect opening for Raven, but there’s no sign of her.

Which means she’s either doing her job or she’s been taken out by one of Rumlow’s crew somewhere in the darkness.

Rumlow laughs. Not loud enough to be heard by the populated parts of the beach, but loud enough to alert someone if they’re nearby. His men are probably hidden behind rocks, or maybe in the Hulk itself, just in case.

He and Raven can probably take them.

“What do you want?” he asks.

“What you want,” Rumlow says. “Gold. Riches. Drink. _Women.”_ The mockery hasn’t gone anywhere, and Erik wants to stab him on principle.

“Glad we had this talk, then.” Erik turns the blade so the moonlight glances off one side, the threat obvious. Rumlow sighs like Erik is some sort of stubborn child.

“Rogers came to you,” he says. “With some plans to take a Hydra fleet, right?”

Fucking pirates.

Although nobody awake at dawn two days ago could have missed that gathering at Luke’s. They'd just counted on no one being awake at dawn. Erik chooses not to answer, but watches as his eyes adjust. Rumlow is becoming a little clearer. His burns are gruesome, but aren’t as bad as his smile.

“Why do you care?” he asks, when it’s clear they aren’t getting anywhere close to an explanation.

“Ditch Rogers.” Rumlow takes a step closer. “Sail with me instead.”

Right. It’s Erik’s turn to laugh. “And why on earth would I do that?”

“What I heard is that Rogers doesn’t want to sell the cargo. He might be able to convince the crew he’s serving some lofty purpose, might have told you that, but this smells like Fury all over. Who takes a ship and doesn’t sell what he finds? You could make ten times the money. Make it worth your time. Your blood. Your lives.”

“Have a good night.” Erik turns away. They’re going to have to find out who Rumlow had listening. Or maybe he just had his ear pressed to the door.

“That’s how your crew will see it,” Rumlow continues. “Isn’t it?”

Azazel. Pym.

He turns back around.

“Why aren’t you going to Rogers?” Erik asks. “He’s the one with the information.”

Rumlow takes another step closer to him, and he needs to stop doing that before Erik gets stabby. “Rogers, he’s too high-minded. Holier-than-thou arse. Under Fury’s thumb.” It’s too close to what Erik had said himself for comfort. “But you, you’re a proper pirate. You know the reality better than he does.”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s the one that knows where the ships are going to be.”

“I bet he showed you. Or you know where to get it.”

Erik thinks of the logbook, and doesn’t blink.

“It’s a better deal, Lehnsherr. They’re out there buying guns from Stark now, right? But I already have enough guns. Just our ships and untold riches. How can you say no to that?”

“Maybe,” Erik says, “I just don’t like you.” He wants to turn away again, to make the point, but there’s a greater chance of a knife in the back for that display of bravado.

“Good thing it’s up to your crew, and not you, isn’t it?” Rumlow smiles again. “Do you think they’ll put petty grudges over wealth?"

_If you think your talents would be better served on Rumlow’s crew—_

Erik doesn’t answer fast enough, and Rumlow keeps fucking smiling. “I’ll make my appeal to your crew. Consider this a warning to pick the right side. Or you might not be a captain for very long, will you? Although I suppose you could join Rogers’s crew, if they’d have you.”

The idea of having to answer to Rogers makes him clench a fist, but so does the idea of Rumlow commanding his ship. “They’ll see through you.”

“There’s nothing to see. I’m honest about what I want. I’m honest about what I’m trying to get. You, you’re just playing a game set up for you by Fury and his cripple.”

He can’t hold back the twitch that time, and Rumlow looks like he’s won. Erik wants to knock his remaining teeth out.

“Can’t you see Fury is just playing you? He must be laughing himself sick, getting English pirates to ' _free the slaves'—”_

“Fury’s not involved.” That part isn’t a secret. “And I don’t answer to him.”

“That’s what he wants you to think.”

It is, probably. “If you think he’d give up everything for a joke, then you don’t know Nick Fury.” And he certainly doesn’t know Charles Xavier.

“Do any of us?” Rumlow asks. “Do you think anyone will take your word for it, when you’re so clearly blinded by whatever Xavier is telling you?”

Erik is the one to move closer now, trying to use the two or so inches he has on the other captain. “I think,” He says, “you’re a twisted, crew-killing son of a bitch, and everyone knows it. Goodnight.”

“I hope you have a damn good plan,” Rumlow calls after him.

Erik keeps walking.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s halfway back and he really hopes Raven is close by.

He’s three quarters of the way back and he thinks, _what if Charles and McCoy are sailing back into a trap?_

He’s two steps past that when he thinks, _they could be lying in wait for the piragua and I couldn’t stop them—_

And then he thinks, _that’s stupid, that would just incite the crew, and doctors are too valuable to kill._

But he can’t do nothing. He has to warn Charles, and, probably, Rogers. And fuck Rumlow for making Erik feel like he and Rogers are on the same side.

There’s a voice in his head, though. One that sounds a little like Shaw. One that says _running to Charles again, Erik?_ One that says _even if he’s not right about Fury, he’s right about the money._ One that says _the crew might agree with him._ Rumlow won’t need to set any form of trap for Rogers and Charles if he can just get the votes. If he can convince the _Hellfire_ men that Rumlow won’t set fire to them as soon as the prize as won. Who would be fine if Charles were forced off the island.

( _It’s not like he doesn’t have anywhere to go_ , that voice says. _Charles can always run along home._ )

He could have, but he didn’t.

Erik could kill Rumlow easily enough. But to really make that the end of it he’d have to kill at least Rollins, maybe a few more. It’s not something that can be done quietly.

Where in the Hell is Raven?

Drake is still by the fire. He looks like he’s nodding off where he sits, but he looks up when Erik reclaims his little patch of sand.

The warmth is a little comforting, now.

“Raven back?” Erik asks. He tries not to move his mouth too much, in case he’s being watched.

Drake shakes his head, looking off into the shadows. The fire has destroyed any chance of seeing what’s out there, and it makes Erik more nervous than it should.

Rumlow isn’t going to attack him.

Although every time Erik assumes pirates have any strategic skill, he tends to be disappointed.

Is Raven dead, or bleeding out somewhere in the sand? Had she run into Cutthroat somewhere in the dark? Is she—

“Hallo,” she says, and Erik wants to scream.

“Where have you been?” he hisses, and she pulls a face.

“Were you worried about me?”

Yes. A little. Maybe. “No. How much did you hear?”

“Everything.” She leans closer, her voice low enough that even Drake would have trouble making it out.

“And you didn’t show yourself because—”

“You were fine, you baby.”

 _Oy vey ist mir._ “We should warn Rogers,” he manages. “And Charles. They’re probably watching us now, but if we go to the brothel we could—”

She digs a finger into his arm. “We can’t go running to them, are you joking with me? That’s exactly what he wants us to do. Then he tells one of our men we’re having secret meetings with Rogers’s crew, and asks them why they think that is, and it’s all over.”

Erik tries to think of calm things. Like still waters and having enough food. It’s unsuccessful. “The crew is smarter than that.”

“No crowd is smarter than that. We careen tomorrow like we were planning, we keep our eyes open, and we mention it to Rogers then. Don’t make it look like it worries you. You’re very easy to read.”

“I am not.” He is a mystery. His reputation depends on it.

“Please.”

Raven’s eyes are firmly on the fire, but he knows she’s listening just as hard as he is. Past the crackle of burning logs to whatever is waiting for them in the shadows.

 

 


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ships are cleaned. Tony tries to haggle. Sam makes snide commentary, and Natasha hatches a scheme.

Stark bids farewell to his neighbors, sets out for a business trip to Port Royal, and then Steve, McCoy and Xavier kidnap him near the eastern point of the island. The sun is barely rising, but he doesn’t look like he’s slept at all.

“You could have given me more time to pack,” Stark complains as he climbs aboard. If the huge bag he’s carrying is what he assembles with little notice, Steve is glad he didn’t have more. It’s already causing the skiff to tilt slightly to one side.

“Look at it this way,” Steve says. “If the crew doesn’t like the plan and sends you home, it means you didn’t waste your time.” He turns to the man sailing Tony’s boat. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Happy,” the man says, looking decidedly not happy.

“Happy,” Steve repeats. “You know the plan?”

“Wait for Tony or a messenger with the password to meet me in Port Royal.”

“I’ve given him money,” Stark says. “You’ll have a good time, won’t you, Happy?”

Happy doesn’t seem like a man faced with a good time, but he sighs and lets their boats drift apart. Sailing alone to Jamaica in a small boat sounds like a lonely time, and Steve doesn’t envy him it.

“He won’t let anything slip?” Xavier asks, and Stark shakes his head. Steve doesn’t really want to place all his faith in a man called Happy, but he also doesn’t want to have to rely on Howard’s son: yet here he is, sailing him back to New Providence Island.

Nassau and its harbor are on the island’s northern side. Normally they’d sail right to it, but now they have Tony Stark to hide. So instead, they tack around the neighboring island of Eluthera, swinging in an arc and approaching Nassau from the east. It adds hours to the trip, time that is filled with Stark and Hank talking about how to make things explode, Stark and Xavier spend talking about acquaintances in common, or just Stark talking at no one in particular.

“You couldn’t sail a ship through here,” he says, as they make their way through the eastern passage. He’s leaning over the edge to get a look at the sandbars below, and Steve resists the urge to push him overboard.

“No,” he agrees. There are enough shoals and cays on this side to make approach disaster for a large ship. A sloop could make it, provided the pilot or captain knew the area well enough— but there are wrecks along the way, beached ships picked over and left to rot, as a testament to those who hadn’t.

“There’s us,” Hank says suddenly. He’s pointing not at Nassau, but at Hog Island, on the north side of the harbor. On one of its beaches, facing their approach but out of sight of Nassau, are two ships. Steve recognizes the familiar lines of the _Avenger,_ highlighted in the afternoon sun.

In a rather literal symbol of their partnership, they’ve leaned the _Hellfire_ is leaning against it. It’s too far away to see exactly what the men are doing, but they’re obviously careening: the crew will be scraping barnacles off the _Hellfire’_ s hull and painting on tar to keep it from leaking. Or getting eaten by worms. Or leaking because of the worms.

Steve alters course.

“Stark, don’t talk to anyone. From a distance we can get my crew to think you’re one of Lehnsherr’s men, and Lehnsherr’s men to think you’re one of ours.”

Stark crosses his arms and glares, but, pointedly, says nothing.

There’ll be no hiding the fact that he doesn’t walk like a sailor, dress like a pirate or talk like a pirate, but they might be able to buy themselves a few minutes. Maybe they can find him a change of clothes and starve off the questions for longer, but a crew cannot keep a secret. And an island could not contain it.

Hank and Steve drag the boat onto the beach, and then Hank and Xavier veer off to the nearest group of _Hellfire_ crew, who loudly cheer their approach. Steve leaves them to it, marching Stark up the beach. He lets the man carry his own bag.

“Who are they?” Stark asks, nodding to the group of men sitting in the shade of the _Avenger._ Steve glances over, and then steers them farther away.

“My crew.” For all their relaxed postures, Steve is sure they’re anything but: they’ll have their weapons nearby, ready to pounce on any sign of mischief against the _Avenger._

“They don’t trust Lehnsherr’s men much, do they.”

No. And Steve doesn’t either. But he doesn’t want to give that to Stark as a weakness he could manipulate, so he stays silent, as they weave through the chaos, keeping an eye out for—

“Lehnsherr!”

The captain is hanging off the side of the _Hellfire_ by a rope, tar brush in hand. They’re too far away to see his expression when he looks down at Steve, but he waves at someone up top and starts sideways-walking down the hull.

He isn’t scowing when he approaches them, which impresses Steve a bit: he personally has never wanted to do anything but scowl while careening. More than one woman has asked him about the scar on his hand— and if Steve were Sam, he would have made up a daring story to go along with it, but the reality is that it came from a barnacle scrape on a day like this one.

Hell, Steve imagines, is fields of barnacles as far as the eye can see.

Lehnsherr reaches them, squinting in the sunlight.

“Place we can talk?” Steve asks. Lehnsherr takes a moment to scrutinize Stark, and then begins leading them to a tent that’s been set up, far from the _Avenger’s_ men.

“It’s still my turn—” the man currently occupying it says, but then he meets Lehnsherr’s eyes and bolts.

Steve frowns, but Lehnsherr’s already turned on one heel, sending a bit of sand flying. “Is that Howard Stark’s son?” he asks.

Damn.

“We were hoping to hide that fact,” Steve says. “But yes.”

“Why?”

Steve opens his mouth, but Stark cuts him off. “Hydra is stealing my stuff.” He sounds like a petulant child. A petulant child with a penchant for making deadly weapons. “I’m hoping to figure out how. Also, Rogers here wanted some tips on gumming up the guns. I thought, in the spirit of friendship, who better to disable the guns than the person who designed them?”

Lehnsherr looks from Stark to Steve and back again.

“He made a convincing argument.” Steve sighs. “And he’s going to be a more credible merchant hostage than any of us.”

“And what size share are we paying the young Mr. Stark for his… merchant hands?” Lehnsherr grabs Stark’s arm and flips over his palm. “Or not.”

His hands are rough and calloused, but not in a way that says _sailor._

Stark yanks his hand back. “I work with metal, how the fuck do you think prototypes get made? The ladies are going to wear gloves. Give me a pair too.”

Steve will never, ever tell Natasha and Darkholme that Stark referred to them as ladies.

“And Charles agreed to this?” Lehnsherr asks, as though they’d be able to do anything without Charles Xavier noticing.

“He did.” Stark cross his arms and scowls. “But you’re welcome to check with him.”

Lehnsherr looks down the beach, to where Xavier has moved on to the next cluster of crew members. The crutches don’t do well in the sand, but when one of the men steps forward to help, he’s waved off. There’s a tightness between Lehnsherr’s eyes, and Steve tries not to grimace. Are the two of them not speaking? They’re supposed to be close.

Then again, so are Steve and Sam. Maybe it’s just going around. Like a fever.

Something sits heavy in his stomach, and he tries to ignore it.

Sam will forgive him.

And if he doesn’t—

If he doesn’t, Steve still thinks he made the right decision.

(If he doesn’t, Steve might have broken something precious for a plan that might not even work. And he doesn't think he'll ever get over it.)

Lehnsherr looks away from Xavier, focusing on Stark. “You didn’t answer my question about the shares.”

“Twenty,” Stark says.

There’s no genuine mirth in Lehnsherr’s laugh. “No.”

“No,” Steve agrees.

“You don’t think I’m worth twenty men? I can do things no one else can—”

“So can I. I get one and a half. So can Barton,” Steve points out. “He gets one share.” And usually the first pistol from a prize, but that’s only because he sees the sails first. “I’m not opposed to you getting more than one share, because you’re…” he was going to say _rented_ , but that probably isn’t going to make the relationship smoother. “You’re here for a specific purpose, you’re not going to be a member of the crew, and you’ve given up a substantial amount to be here.” Unlike the rest of them, who had nothing to give up. “But if we go out there and tell the men you’re getting twenty shares, they’re going to laugh you back to your father’s house.”

“You’re also basically useless until we find the fleet,” Lehnsherr adds. “And there’s always a chance that doesn’t happen.”

(They might wait for weeks, and—)

“Ten shares,” Steve says.

“Eight shares from the fleet,” Lehsnherr says. “And half a share of any prizes we take along the way.”

Prizes they take along the—

Steve should have considered that. It’s going to be hard to convince the crew to wait for the fleet, especially if they’ve already been waiting for days, if another ship comes by. And if they chase it, they may lose the fleet entirely.

But he can’t solve that right now.

“Ten,” Stark says, poking his bag with his foot. “I come with extras.”

“Nine,” says Lehnsherr.

Tony looks at Steve, but if he thinks Steve is going to be on his side, he’s mistaken: Steve just raises an eyebrow, and Tony huffs.

“Nine,” he says. “With half a share of extra prizes.”

Lehnsherr offers a hand. Stark shakes it. Then he shakes Steve’s. Steve wonders if he should shake Lehnsherr’s hand as well, but they already did that, in a verbal sort of way.

“Excellent,” Lehnsherr says. “I’ll send for a pen and paper.” He looks around, but all the men are down by the ships.

“Wait.” Stark holds up a hand. “You’re writing this down?”

It hadn’t even occurred to Steve that that would be an issue, although now that he stops to think, he understands. “You can’t sail without signing the articles. That’s non-negotiable.”

“And what happens if someone boards your ship and finds these articles?”

“You can say we put a gun to your head,” Steve says. “It’s been done before.”

“And the last person to board and take the _Hellfire_ was me.” Lehnsherr says it like he’s declaring war. “No one will find it. I can even promise to burn it afterwards if that’ll keep you from worrying your little head.”

He had to go there, didn’t he. Steve can’t really jab Stark, or do anything else to keep him from doing exactly what he wants to do, which is probably shouting.

“Give us a minute, will you?” Lehnsherr asks before he can do so.

“What—”

They stare down each other for a minute, and Stark takes two steps back.

They keep staring.

Stark takes another, single, step.

“For fuck’s sake,” Steve says. Stark snorts, and then leaves the shade of the tent entirely, sitting on a rock about twenty paces away, bag in tow. He’s a good distance from both their crews, but even so, it seems unwise to leave him out on his own, especially if Lehnsherr is about to argue against his very presence.

Stark starts twiddling his thumbs.

“Rumlow came to see me last night,” Lehnsherr says. He says it casually enough that Steve suspects that what he really wants to do is scream.

Steve can relate. Rumlow’s very existence makes him want to scream, too. “What did he want?”

“For me to steal the logbook from you, and sail for the fleet with him, taking and selling everyone on it. Then, presumably, we would both become vastly wealthy and retire to Madagascar, before he sets my ship on fire and steals all my crew’s shares.”

The part of Steve that is still a small boy with difficulty breathing wants to put his head between his knees and heave, but he’s a captain, and a captain can’t do that.

On his rock, Stark starts twiddling his thumbs.

“I’m assuming you told him no, or you wouldn’t be talking to me.”

“I told him a lot of things.” Lehnsherr looks back to the _Hellfire_ and surrounding commotion. “‘No’ being one of them. I don’t trust Rumlow.”

“You trust me?”

“No.” Steve’s been hearing that a lot lately, and it’s starting to become hurtful. “But I trust you more than I trust him.”

“Small favors, then.”

Lehnsherr grins at him, a little, and Steve can’t help but give half a smile back, even as he thinks that this could be it. If Rumlow takes this prize, it’s over. The slaves on board are lost. And Bucky’s lost. Bucky would never volunteer to join Rumlow’s crew, and even if he did, the idea of him sailing on the _Crossbones_ makes Steve sick. Rumlow will probably recognize him, and might kill him on that alone. He’ll come back to Nassau with Bucky’s head and then he’ll tell Steve in great detail how Bucky died, and it’ll probably be lies, but Steve won’t—

Steve won’t—

He takes a deep breath.

He’s not a child, he hasn’t been up a chimney in years, and he can breathe now.

“Is he planning on making the proposal to your crew?”

“He is.”

“Any chance they’ll choose you over him?” Lehnsherr is their captain. They’ve made huge amounts of money under him. Surely they’ll trust him.

That’s naive. Individual men might be loyal, but a whole crew only trusts money.

“Many of them would,” Lehnsherr says. “But it will give them doubts.”

The last thing they’ll want is a vote. A split of the crews. “Who else knows about this?”

“Some of his men, presumably. Me. Raven. Now you.”

Steve is going to have to tell Sam that another thing has gone wrong. Unless he can fix it without— no, no Sam will murder him if he finds out Steve kept something else from him.

Or just leave him.

“It’s not going to be a secret for much longer." Lehnsherr continues. "If enough people on his crew know, it’ll make its way around. And that’s before he addresses ours. But if we can keep him from getting to the logbook—”

It’s too late for that. “What’s in there isn’t a secret.” Not the part Rumlow wants, anyway. “Enough of my men know where the ships are supposed to be that I’m sure Emma and her girls know as well. Rumlow will find that out soon enough if he starts asking questions.” If the _Crossbones_ could succeed on its own, he’d likely already be sailing, trying to beat Steve and Lehnsherr to it. But he’ll need at least one of them. God knows there aren’t alternatives. “Maybe we could discredit him.” It’s underhand, but there’s too much at risk here. “Can Charles—”

“He threatened Charles,” Lehnsherr interrupts, voice sharp. “Sort of. Rumlow’s current story is that Fury is manipulating us into being his pawns. If Charles or Fury finds out, any move they make will play into that story.”

Steve keeps watching the careening. They could almost be ready. He’d thought they were almost ready.

It’s not just the sea that changes quickly.

“I never thought of Rumlow as having a political bone in his body,” he says. “He joined my crew when he first came to Nassau. We threw him out a few weeks later because he kept getting into fights on board, kept leaving open candles around, was generally an arse.” It was the best personnel decision they ever made, short of electing Sam.

“Maybe he’s still mad about it.”

If he is, he can die mad about it, as far as Steve is concerned. “He’s done well for himself since.” Gotten his own ship. Gotten his own crew. “The other captains won’t like what he’s doing— the idea that he can just take a prize I found. If he can do it to me, what’ll stop him from doing it to them? If we start fighting each other for leads, the whole place will collapse.” If they can see that far in the future. If they _care._

“They do like you more than him,” Lehnsherr says, and Steve considers this.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“What if we frame it like that? I get on with most everyone here, yourself and Rumlow excluded. We frame it as me verses him, him trying to steal something I’ve already found—”

Lehnsherr snorts. “Unfortunately it’s my crew whose votes count. Unless you’re proposing that if my crew votes wrong, you sail away with Richards to try and take the fleet before Rumlow can, and hope he doesn’t blow you up when you’re weak from battle.”

They have no chance at taking the fleet in the first place without the _Hellfire_ or a ship of equivalent size and weaponry, and the _Fantastic_ , as Fury had pointed out, isn’t that ship. Steve would kill to have Thor or Peggy around— and, that’s an idea.

If Steve just killed Rumlow—

No. No, he’ll have the clearest motive, and any good standing he has here would be gone. Steve would probably be killed in his sleep in retaliation, because pirates murder and sometimes they murder each other, but not captains this visible, this obvious.

Unless he just disappeared. Steve imagines sticking a sword through Rumlow’s neck and sinking the body off of Hog Island. Men disappear all the time— they get on ships to go elsewhere, they get drunk and smash their heads on the rockets, they’re caught on raids and get picked up by the Navy or the _Guardacosta_ or some town magistrate and have their corpses dunked in tar. But Rumlow isn’t a nameless sailor with rum breath and syphilis. He’s a captain, and for all he’s hated, he’s a respected one. For him to go missing or turn up dead at this moment would make everyone wonder: who’s next?

If Steve wasn’t blamed, Fury would be.

“Maybe if everyone’s against him we could stop him from approaching your crew in the first place.”

“What,” Lehnsherr says. “Go up to them now and say, _Rumlow wants to hunt this prize, but he’s a fuckstick, so back us in a fight?”_

“Not exactly what I had in mind.” Steve keeps studying the careening men. They range from mostly naked to mostly dressed, diligently working to sprawled out in the shade of the ships. Steve’s men keep watching them. “They already have half the story. They know we’re hunting a Hydra fleet. We tell them how we plan to do it now. We get them invested. It means Rumlow can’t act like we were lying to them, and once they’ve agreed to the plan they’ll be more likely to defend it should he challenge.”

It was going to be safer to share the whole plan once the ships were underway and pray like hell that the men went for it, but maybe that was never going to work. It’s not really the pirate way, and Steve has kept the full story from the men for too long already.

Lehnsherr nods. “We can do that, but it probably won’t stop him.”

“We can’t kill him.” Lehnsherr isn’t an idiot, Lehnsherr has to know that. But the man just scowls, and starts stomping off towards the beach.

“Can I come back now?” Stark shouts.

“No,” Steve yells back, and goes to find Sam.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve is damn convincing.

The careening has been put on hold, both crews fighting for shade while they listen to the captains speak. Clint and James Proudstar are doing sweeps of the perimeter to make sure no one is listening in, but they’re far enough from Nassau that the danger isn’t high.

Sam leans up against a stray palm tree, trying to seem casual. He and Nat are a good distance back from the men, ostensibly to help keep watch, though they’re watching Xavier and Stark more than the crews. They’ve gotten Stark a new set of clothes, but it’s not going to be too long before someone realizes he isn’t one of Xavier’s men, or from either ship.

Steve is standing in front of the crowd with Lehnsherr, and they’re talking like they’ve practiced it: Steve says “we will offer them freedom under the black,” and Lehnsherr says, “and we will win freedom from those who do not offer it,” in a perfect balance of justice and fear.

“Do you think he wrote that down first?” Sam mutters.

Nat’s eyebrows are conveying something like _Oh, are we talking again?_ But what she says is “I think it comes naturally.”

“That’s just unfair.”

“Are you speaking to him yet?”

“We were never not speaking.” Sam tucks his arms in around his chest. “We have jobs to do.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

No, it’s not what she means. Steve is talking now about being the baddest bunch of pirates to every badly sail the bad bad ocean, or something, and the men are eating it up. But Sam isn’t as convinced as Steve is that that will be enough to slow down Rumlow. He’s also not sure when Steve decided to start solving problems with diplomacy.

“Was it your idea not to tell me?” Sam asks, “or his?”

“The idea wasn’t to not tell you, the idea was to not tell anyone. Which part are you mad about? The secret, or that you weren’t in on it?”

Both. Either.

All Sam has to do is keep quiet, and everyone gets what they want.

There was never really another option. He’d made a decision within a few minutes of finding that logbook, because he can imagine Steve’s face if Sam took it to the crew. Steve knows what Sam has built here, knows how precious it is to him, and if Sam put that first Steve would _understand._

And then he would probably sail off in a skiff and try and rescue Bucky anyway. And Rumlow would take the ships and kill Steve in the process.

“What’s he like?” he asks Natasha. “Barnes.”

Her eyes don’t drift as she considers. “He was a pirate,” she says. “Strong. Loud. Smelled like rum. Missing part of his left arm.”

“They pressed a man with one arm?”

She shrugs. “They must not have thought he’d fight back.” They must have been desperate.

“He can’t have been just a pirate. Not to get you and Steve after him like this.”

“If you ask Steve, he’ll probably go on about— I don’t know, brotherhood, or something. They grew up together. But I think you’re really asking me if he’s worth it.”

Sam thinks of what he would have done for his family. For Riley. “Is he?”

“He doesn’t have to be, for you.”

That’s not the question.

“If it helps,” she continues, “you should be mad at me. Not Steve. I’m the one that wanted to keep it quiet.”

That could be true. That could also be a lie she’s telling because it’s what’s best for the current situation. Unfortunately for her— “I’ve got enough anger to be mad at both of you.”

“Have you considered that you might feel better if you weren’t angry?”

“I’ve considered it. But then I thought, you know what would make me really feel better? If I got an actual apology. You know how much we’ve all put into this. You don’t get to manipulate me like that. You understand?”

She just keeps looking at him. It’s unsettling. “Alright,” she says.

“And?”

“And I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t say she won’t do it again, but she’s not the one Sam needed to hear that from anyway. He turns back to the two captains, who are currently predicting what they think they can make from the sale of the ships.

Steve is good in battle, but he might be at his best here. Taking a bunch of thieving, angry men and trying to make them want to do something almost good in a thieving, angry way. It makes something warm and sharp grow in Sam’s chest, so he tries to focus his attention elsewhere.

“What do you think Lehnsherr’s game is?” It’s not a peace offering to Natasha, but it’s something Sam has been wondering for days now. Lehnsherr doesn’t seem, by any account, to be the type of man who would sail off on someone else’s agenda. And yet despite whatever is going on with him and Xavier, he’s gone along with theirs.

“Why do you think he has one?”

“Everyone has one. I don’t know anything about him,” Sam realizes. “Aside from what he claims to have done. Normally you’d at least know if a man’s Catholic or Protestant.”

Sam doesn’t always know the truth about the men he sails with, but he at least knows the stories they claim to. Fuck, back when she was at Emma’s, Natasha used to say she was related to the Russian Tsars. Once Sam had made fun of her for it, but she’d just shrugged and said it could be true.

 _And I’m the prince of Wakanda,_ Sam had shot back.

She’d smiled. _I’ve got no proof that you aren’t._

“Catholic, Protestant, maybe neither,” Natasha says. “He hardly ever came by the inn. But when he did, he always fucked in a dark room. Never let anyone get a hand or mouth on him.”

Sam scrunches up his face. “Gross.”

“So.”

“So?”

She looks at him like this is supposed to mean something to him.

“So his spicket is the size of his thumb?” Sam guesses, although this was nowhere near the kind of information that he was looking for.

“What? No. No it’s… definitely not.”

“Did you ever?” Sam asks, not because he needs to think about Natasha fucking Lehnsherr but because he wants to know where this conversation is going.

“No.”

“So you know this because?”

“Because whores talk to each other, Sam. Constantly. The size isn’t the point. This point is that he doesn’t want anyone to see his cock.”

Sam is not following. “So?”

“I think he’s Jewish.”

That’s not nearly as entertaining as what Sam had been imagining. “You think?”

“That’s where my money is.”

Lehnsherr doesn’t look particularly Jewish to Sam, but he’d never really spent much time in the Jewish Quarter of Port Royal. “What does his cock have to do with it?”

“They do something to ‘em.” Natasha makes a gesture that has Sam grimacing. “There’s other Jewish men here, I’ve seen ‘em. They aren’t keeping it a secret, but Lehnsherr thinks he has to.”

“Or he’s just self-conscious.”

“Please.”

Sam thinks it’s a big leap, but maybe that’s because he doesn’t want to think about what the whores might have gleaned from his own visits.

He tells himself that Natasha doesn’t know as much as she acts like she knows, but sometimes he wonders.

“Barnes,” he says, and she stops smiling at the change of topic. “Were you in love with him?” _Was Steve?_

“Love is for children,” she says, like that’s any kind of answer. “Does it matter?”

It matters, because if there are two people willing to put Bucky’s life above Steve’s, then Sam is going to have to start scheming. And he’s never been a schemer. “Steve is willing to die for Bucky,” he says. “If we’re the only two people who know about it, we’re the ones who have to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

She squints at him, and Sam turns back to the captains, who seem to be concluding this bit of theater.

“I’m still mad at you,” he adds.

 

* * *

 

 

They’d returned to Nassau after the careening, half the men setting up camp on the beach while the other half ran into town. News of the plan is going to be all over town by morning, and Natasha tries not to fret over it.

She understands Steve’s strategy. She does. Make sure the men are on your side, then set them up against an opposing force, making them even more confident in their decision for fear of being wrong. It’s a reasonable line of logic.

The counterpoint is this: when they’re out at sea, waiting for weeks in the hopes that the fleet will appear, the men will think _maybe we should sell everyone on board when we take that ship._  They’ll think _maybe Rumlow would have done something more daring._ They’ll think _I don’t want to be here,_ and they may regret their vote.

Natasha can’t allow that to happen.

She’s worked too hard and sacrificed too much to get where she is. If the crew turns to Rumlow, there’s a good chance she’ll be back in a room at Emma’s, getting diseases and looking at pricks. Or she’ll have to beg her way onto Coulson or Thor’s crews, where no one trusts her and she won’t have any control over the situation.

And if that happens, James is never getting off that ship. He’ll never get to come home.

So she looks into the fire, and she tries to think.

Rumlow’s ship is a two-masted, eighteen-gun sloop, as well armed as an _Armadillo_. To eliminate Rumlow as a viable alternative, they’ll have to take it out of play.

And Steve can’t be involved. Sneaky isn’t his style. Not to mention that any whiff of his association will cause more problems then it will solve. And Lehnsherr— she doesn’t trust Lehnsherr much more than she trusts Rumlow. Sam has enough to deal with right now— he’s going to be angry at her for lying again, but he’ll understand.

And if he doesn’t—

He’s her friend.

But a lot of her former friends hate her now, and Natasha can live with that if it means the mission is successful.

Clint would want to help. Clint could be trustworthy. But too many people know them as a team, and that might give them up before they start.

Instead, she looks to where Lehnsherr’s crew has made camp.

Someone else there has as much to lose as she does.

There’s no kinship between Natasha and Raven Darkholme. Women, she had learned, were just as likely to stab you in the back as men, so she’d tried not to seek them out. Sometimes she regrets it— there were whores at Emma’s she thinks would have supported her, had she asked. She could have tried harder to get on with Carol, back when Carol first joined the crew, but she’d been nearly as prickly and defensive as Nat.

And then there’s Daisy. Daisy, who runs around prize ships and Nassau town pretending to be a man. Daisy, who sails on a ship that’s almost half women and still feels the need to hide.

Natasha had never had that option.

She doesn’t know what options Darkholme had. But it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t need to become sisters with the woman.

So she makes the trek between camps, lettering the darkness catch her and spit her back out on the other side. She finds Darkholme sitting in the entryway to a tent. There’s a pair of very hairy feet sticking out next to her, but Natasha can’t say who they belong to.

“Hey,” she says.

Darkholme looks up at her. “What?”

“I need to talk to you. About—” Natasha looks at the hairy feet, and the men clearly within earshot. She places a hand on her stomach. “You know.”

One of the men makes a sound like, “euch.”

“Grow the fuck up, Summers,” Darkholme says, but she gets to her feet. She does it gracefully, rolling forward and then up. In another life, maybe she could have been a dancer. In this life, word is that she’s killed men with her feet.

Natasha has watched her fight. Has planned defenses should those infamous feet come at her. But it shouldn’t get to that point here. Not surrounded by Lehnsherr’s men.

She leads the other woman closer to the water, where the waves will cover their voices.

Darkholme’s arm is pressed tight against her body. She’s probably got a hand on a knife. Or two.

Natasha digs her toes into the ground. “I’m not here to fight you.”

“Good. You’d lose.”

Wrong. “Maybe we’ll find out someday.” It’s the most diplomatic response she can come up with. “I’m here about Rumlow.”

Darkholme gets, somehow, even tenser. “For, or against?”

“Against. How much do you think Rumlow is going to respect any woman who sails near him?” Natasha has never had to sleep with him, but she’s heard stories from Julia and Brandt, and she hates him for that as well. “If your captain looses the vote, you’re—”

“If he looses, I’d follow him anyway,” Darkholme interrupts. “As would others. If your captain looses, wouldn’t you do the same?”

Maybe, and it’s all well and good, but James would be long gone by the time they got that shit sorted out.

“But I don’t think it will be an issue,” she continues. There’s a certain note in her voice, that—

“You’re planning on killing him?” Natasha hisses. “What the fuck, Darkholme?”

“Dear God, call me Raven. And I didn’t say that. I’ve talked Erik down from it at least five times in the last day.”

It takes a moment to remember who _Erik_ is supposed to be.

“Lehnsherr can’t kill him,” Natasha agrees. The waves pull away from shore with a quiet sigh, and she checks again to make sure no one is listening. “That doesn’t mean you can’t.”

Raven doesn’t say anything.

“I’ve thought about it, too,” she adds. “But I think I’ve come up with a better plan.”

“By all means.” Raven takes the hand off her knife, and folds her arms across her chest. When Natasha doesn’t speak, she snorts. “What is it? You need help, or you wouldn’t be talking to me.”

If Raven turns out to be a traitor, Natasha will deny this conversation ever took place. She’ll challenge her to a fight, and she’ll win. Probably.

 

She tells her the plan.

Raven tilts her head to one side, and it’s hard to tell in the dark, but Natasha thinks she might be smiling. “Well. I suppose don’t have anywhere to be tonight.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more of a half-chapter, so... apologies for that. My Black Sails big bang kind of ate my life for two months, but that's done and posting soon. Hooray. I think you all for your patience with this weird little AU


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha and Raven try to stop Rumlow. Sam has two arguments at once. Daisy's arm falls asleep. Fury continues to not put tea in his teacups.

Raven hasn’t worn a dress for years.

It doesn’t fit her well. It restricts her movements, shoves her breasts together, and how the hell is she going to swim if she can’t take a full breath?

Her only comfort is that Romanoff looks just as happy.

The plan is sound. Captain Rogers is at Luke’s, with at least twenty other men. Erik is at the Scale, glaring at Charles’s door. All Romanoff and Raven have to do is disappear, and that’s easy once they walk into Emma’s.

“I need a favor,” Romanoff had said to Emma when they snuck in the back. Emma had smiled like her wildest dreams had come true.

“Hello, Spider.”

The Black Widow. It’s said that Romanoff’s kiss kills. That she lures men to their deaths more deftly than any mermaid. But Raven looks at her face as she stuffs her breasts into a corset, and wonders.

No one’s reputation is true, here.

But no one’s reputation is false, here.

The main room isn’t large, and the food isn’t good, so the result is a cramped space full of unpleasant smells. The low ceiling supports the small rooms upstairs, but looks like it’s one over-enthusiastic fuck away from collapsing in on them.

God might have a good laugh about that.

“I told her we wouldn’t ruin the dresses,” Romanoff mutters. They’re staying out of sight as best they can while they survey the room. But Raven isn’t worried about being spotted. She’s bathed, her hair isn’t slicked back, she’s put some stuff around her eyes— she doesn’t think she’d recognize _herself._

If anything, she looks more like Romanoff. They’re about the same height, with red hair around the same length. From a distance, they might be able to pass for each other, and that might be useful.

“I hope you knew you were lying.”

“I did.”

There’s no room for error here. If they mess up, there are going to be questions, and they’re going to lose their chance. And then Rumlow might break her crew and Raven can’t let that happen.

(Although she’d _warned_ Erik, when he agreed to go after this prize. She’d warned him every step of the way.)

“That one.” Romanoff points to a man in the corner. He’s looking around with wide eyes. “I saw him with Cutthroat earlier, and he’s got that look like—”

Like he’s never seen Crystal with her top folded down, yes. She’s got a kid who’s still nursing, and the man can’t take his eyes off her chest, even after she turns away.

After that, it’s easy. They corner him near the back.

Romanoff says, “my sister and I, we’re new here.”

Raven says, “so you’re a _pirate?”_

Romanoff says, “I’ve always dreamed of becoming a pirate,” with a slant to her eyelashes that makes Raven want to laugh.

Instead she says, “oh please, can we see the ship?”

And he says, “my name is Manfredi,” and he says, “so am I,” and he says, “so I am,” and he says, “well, let’s see what we can do.”

“But the madam doesn’t like us going out,” Romanoff adds, glancing around. Her teeth are just scraping her bottom lip in a very convincing show of nerves.

“Well, we’ll have to go quietly then, won’t we?”

And then they’re sneaking out, walking down the back side of the street where they’re less likely to be noticed.

Nassau is always a little odd, at night. When Raven walks at Erik’s side, people get out of her way. When she walks alone, she’s got a hand on her sword. She doesn’t quite know how to walk like this.

“Where did you come from?” Romanoff asks, and Manfredi gives a long monologue about his family being in the Maggia, and Raven chooses not to believe a word of it. It’s not that she’s going to feel bad about killing this man, but she wants to know as little about him as possible.

No one gives them a second glance when they get to the beach, even as they climb into one of the longboats. Romanoff twitches like she’s about to reach for the oars, but a feeble whore wouldn’t do the rowing herself.

“You’re strong,” Raven says, fighting to stay in character. It’s easy for her to change how she looks, but she hasn’t yet figured out how to change who she _is._ Romanoff doesn’t seem to be having the same problem: but then, she’s played this part before.

Manfredi isn’t struggling to row, but he’s not moving very quickly either. Romanoff keeps up just the right amount of sweet talk as they move, and Raven stares at the black water and thinks idly about drowning all three of them.

“You two talk different,” he says when Raven finally speaks again, with his first note of confusion. “You’re sisters?”

Shit.

“We were separated when were young,” Romanoff says smoothly, running a hand along Manfredi’s arm. “Our parents eloped— our mother was the daughter of a wealthy merchant, and our father but a farm hand. It was quite a scandal. Our mother’s parents forced her to leave our father, and he took… Mary there with him. Me, I was left with our mother, and she tried to hide the truth. But once we grew up, we found out about each other. And we realized we had to be together.” She leans up behind him, whispering the words against his skin. “Mary found me just as I was shipping out for the New World, but we knew even there we would be kept apart. So we fled here, to the place we knew was for those who wanted to be free.”

“And you’re, ah, very familiar with each other then?” Manfredi looks to Raven like he’s waiting for confirmation. She blinks— she’d been more caught up in Romanoff’s story than she’d meant to be, and she retaliates by grabbing his crotch.

“Very comfortable,” she says, in what she hopes is a seductive tone. “We don’t want to do anything apart, ever again.”

Natasha— and she’d just made up an incestuous story about the two of them, so Raven figures that gives her first name rights— gives her a look. Like _Raven_ is the one who went too far.

“This here is the _Crossbones,”_ Manfredi says proudly as they pull up alongside it. He says it like he built her, he says it like he owns more than just a share in her. Raven smiles and tries to look enchanted, although it’s dark enough she’s not sure she has to bother.

The _Crossbones_ is a sloop-of-war, like the _Hellfire,_ but she has more guns. It’s going to be a goddamn shame to sink them to the bottom.

Climbing over the side is a lot harder in a dress than pants. If Manfredi didn’t seem so genuinely appreciative of the view, Raven would be angry about it: as it is, she should just be glad that he doesn’t notice the knives strapped to her legs.

The only man on watch is leaning against the mast, looking like he’s midway through a very enticing dream.

“Let’s go below,” Manfredi whispers when he joins them over the side. “We don’t want to wake him.”

Certainly not.

They make a show of tip-toeing to the stairs, past the hammocks and down into the hold. Manfredi lights a torch.

“Oooh,” Raven says, trying to look impressed at the empty hold. Narrow curved walls and some extra balled up sail cloth. She has nothing to say about it, so she spins around. “Undo my corset?”

Manfredi tugs on one of the strings and it feels like a breath of fresh air.

Footsteps clunk on the deck above them. And somewhere above that, someone shouts at the man on watch. Raven catches Natasha’s eye.

“Here, let me,” Natasha says, voice still low and seductive. She must have heard it too, but she hasn’t given any hint that it bothers her. _God,_ she’s good. She finishes undoing Raven’s laces, and then turns around so Raven can do the same. The boat rocks a little, and Raven gives Natasha a warning bite on the top of her spine. Manfredi makes a sound like she’s punched him, and Raven looks up, smiling.

“Well?”

The footsteps are on the stairs, now. Almost to the door.

“Manfredi, what the fuck? You’re not allowed to have women here.”

That’s fine, they can seduce a second one. Raven turns, and—

Looks straight into the face of Cutthroat Leighton, not three feet away.

He gapes back.

It takes him a second to recognize her, in these clothes and the low light, but he must, she can see it in his expression— he looks to her unlaced dress, and then back to her face, and his hand goes for his knives but Raven is faster, even like this. She yanks him forward with her hand over his mouth. Natasha had been putting a hand up her skirt like she was about to touch herself, but she’s got one of her knives instead and she’s slashing across Cutthroat’s neck in a fitting end. She steps neatly away from the spray of blood and her knife is in Manfredi’s throat before he can even realize how wrong his night had gone.

He fells, and the torch falls with him, landing on a roll of sail cloth.

Above them, someone says, “what was that?”

“Time to go,” Natasha says.

“They can’t see this.” The bodies are going to need to be burned, or it’ll be obvious they didn’t die in a fire. Just in case they’re able to put it out, and if they put it out Raven and Natasha will have to come up with another plan—  
  
Natasha kicks the torch away from the burning cloth and towards the bodies. It takes a few tense seconds for Manfredi’s pant leg to light.

Then she gives Raven a nod—

And Raven screams, running up the stairs as fast as she can, tits still out and Natasha at her heels. “Fire!” she cries. Loud enough for them not to be suspicious, not loud enough for female voices to be heard by anyone surviving the night. “Fire!”

There are a few people starting to move around by the hammocks, but she can only give them a brief glace before they make it to the deck. The watchman looks at them, and then down at his feet. “How—”

“A candle,” Natasha says, looking close to tears. “It fell, in the hold, they’re on fire—”

The watchman crosses himself, and says the shortest Hail Mary that Raven has ever heard. Fuckin' Catholics. “We have to run,” he says. “We have to get you away from here before the fire reaches the powder room—” he hurries them along to the starboard side, tripping a little over some of the ropes. “I can swim— jump, and you can hold onto me, there’s no time to climb.”

They stare at him for the appropriate second.

“I’ll go first,” he says, chivalrous and anxious to escape. “Just jump after me and I’ll get you to shore.”

He hops up on the side, and throws himself overboard.

Natasha only hesitates for a moment before following him, doing a good flail on the way down. Raven can hear a yelp and a splash when she lands. She’ll assume it’s part of the disguise.

The smoke is rising. It’s in Raven’s nose, it’s in her hair, and she doesn’t think it’ll ever come out of the clothes. She lingers on the rail for a moment, patting the wood.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

It’s a shame to lose a good ship.

And then she jumps, and gets one moment of _falling_ before the water slaps her in the ass.

She doesn’t yell, but it’s a near thing.

And then there’s a hand around her shoulder— the watchman was true to his word. He’s not a great swimmer, but he’s better than most sailors. Natasha and Raven hold onto him, making a show of kicking as they move away from the ship.

The fire is spreading. Raven can feel the heat on the back of her neck, see a bit of the glow reflected in the water ahead.

They might only have seconds, now. Someone will raise the alarm on another ship, and all eyes will turn towards the water.

And then Natasha takes a deep breath, and Raven twists, kicking the watchman as hard as she can in the stomach. He gasps as the air leaves his lungs, and she grabs his face and shoves his head into the water. His arms flail, but Natasha catches them.

Raven isn’t so sure she’s not drowning herself. The water is cold, colder than she’d let herself think about when she hit it, and she only has her legs to keep her afloat because she has to keep holding the man’s head, and they should have just cut his throat too but he might wash up on shore. So she’s kicking and kicking as her dress tries to drag her down and she holds the man still, and at one point Natasha catches her shoulder like she’s about to sink and drag Raven down with her, but she’s not, she doesn’t, and the watchman has stopped flailing and Raven thinks _I just killed a man who was trying to save me._

He was trying to save himself, too.

Raven has killed a lot of men.

“Come on,” Natasha says. “We have to go.”

But when they let go of the man, they stay a moment, treading water.

He doesn’t resurface.

They can’t go directly to shore, not as they are. Instead, they swim for the Hulk wreck and the line of trees behind it, where they’d stashed dry clothes. But there’s smoke in her lungs and her dress is still pulling on her and Raven just wants to stay still.

But she’s killed men with her feet, so she can goddamn well use them to save herself.

“Jesus, my tits have gone numb,” Natasha gasps, and Raven opens her mouth to answer when—

_BOOM_

_BOOM-BOOM_ - _ **BOOM**_

They turn.

The top deck of the _Crossbones_ is blasted upwards with the force, and the mast leans back, dragging half the rigging with it. Bits of burning wood fall around them, hissing as they hit the water.

Yelling starts: watches half asleep suddenly awake, the ones nearest checking to make sure their own ships haven’t caught any burning debris, making sure they aren’t the next to be set alight.

Raven and Natasha swim further into the dark.

 

* * *

 

 

  
They turn towards shore when they draw level with the Hulk, and eventually the water is shallow enough to stand in. Natasha’s legs seem to be locking funny— it takes her a few tries to get to her feet.

Raven slips on something slimy, splashing more than she should.

“Shit,” she hisses.

Her teeth start chattering as more of her damp body is met with the night air— and that’s embarrassing, really. It’s not cold. She’s been to the South Sea, for fuck’s sake. She grew up by the English channel. The Caribbean waters are nothing, even at night.

They make it to shore. Scamper up past the tideline. Their clothes and the cloth they’d left to dry themselves are still untouched, and Natasha sighs.

“Think they’ll be able to save the dresses?”

“We’ll bring them back,” Raven says. “Like we promised.” But it’s not all they promised. “What did you offer Emma?”

“Future shares.” Natasha tries to get out of her dress without covering it in wet sand, but it’s a lost cause: they’ll have to dunk them in the sea again. “It was a fair trade.”

It doesn’t sound like the truth, but Raven isn’t going to push it. Instead she stares out at the dark water, capped by fire.

“The watchman. Did you catch his name?” It shouldn’t bother her, except that she’s never killed a man as anyone other than herself. It’s the most and least personal way she’s ever done it.

Natasha looks back as well. “No,” she says, after a few seconds. “No I didn’t.”

  


* * *

 

 

  
The pillows aren’t comfortable, and the bed isn’t comfortable, but the crook of Daisy’s elbow is nice enough.

“I got no feeling in my fingers,” Daisy says. She wiggles them, and then— “Ow.”

“You have my deepest sympathies.” Natasha makes no effort to move. After a few seconds, Daisy rolls her over, sending her out from under their thin blanket. It’s not _cold_ — cold is something she left behind long ago— but it’s certainly less pleasant

She retaliates by dragging Daisy down on top of her. “You steal my blanket, you better be ready for their job.”

“That was not in the articles,” Daisy says, but then she bites Nat’s lower lip before slowing down to kiss her properly.

In their little room in the back of the inn, a few walls away from her crew, Natasha gives herself a moment to relax.

A moment to think, _this is good._

“So,” Daisy says when they separate. “You were here all night, weren’t you?”

“I was.”

“So if someone asks about why everyone was running around hollering last night—?”

Natasha widens her eyes. “Something happened?”

“Mm, sounds like Rumlow deserved whatever was coming to him.”

So did Cutthroat. Manfredi probably didn’t. That watchman probably didn’t. But they’re all pirates, and objectively, they’ll have all earned their deaths when the reaper calls.

“Who said anything about Rumlow?”

“Nobody.” Daisy curls into Natasha’s side a bit, leaving Nat to stare at the cracked wooden ceiling. This had been the Meachums’s house, once, before the family was driven off by Carter and Fury. The room they’re in now might have been a closet, but it still fits a bed. Still perfectly good for what pirates use it for.

Somewhere in this building, Howard Stark’s son is sleeping under close observation.

And tomorrow, someone else will be here in her place.

She doesn’t get sentimental about it. Nothing here lasts. Nothing here is meant to.

“Offer stands if you want to come with us,” she says anyway. “There might not be vast riches in it, but you’ll get to see Rogers and Lehnsherr try and work together.”

Daisy laughs a little, rolling to the side— she’s on top of the blanket as well, now. Serves her right. “I would be for it if there were vast riches. Damn, we need a new ship. I never thought I’d be here long enough to see the seasons change.”

Natasha doesn’t think she’s ever been in Nassau for more than a month straight, though some of her voyages have only been days in length. “What’s that like?”

“It’s like nothing. The nights get colder. Sometimes they get warmer.”

“When I was a child,” Nat says, not sure why she’s doing so, “there was so much snow.” She remembers it in flashes— white. In her eyes and nose and mouth. Her mother’s voice, reprimanding Alexei.

Daisy doesn’t ask how she got from the snow to a tropical island, which is good, because Nat isn’t always sure herself. They’d accompanied the Tsar on a tour of Europe, to learn about shipbuilding. Her mother had run away, perhaps? It’s hard to place. But somehow, she’d ended up on one of those ships.

 _My father knows the Tsar_ is a statement that would likely be treated as credulously as Whitman’s claim that he is the rightful heir to some castle in England.

She also has no idea if Peter is still alive.

“Do you miss it?” Daisy asks. “Where you’re from?”

“Well, the women were less beautiful there.” That gets her a poke, and they both laugh the quiet laugh of people who know they won’t be doing it later.

Sure enough, someone bangs on the door. “Nat!”

“Ugh.” She wants to pull the blanket over their heads, even though she knows they have to get up, that she has to help put this plan she’d helped form into action. They’re going to save people, find Bucky, and make money, but first she’s going to have to get dressed. “One moment!” she shouts back.

Another bang. “Nat!”

“Just—”

Clint opens the door, and Daisy dives for the edge of the bed. But instead of covering herself, she pulls out a pistol. Clint slams the door and has his hands at his sides within a moment— he’s also still staring at Daisy’s breasts, eyebrows absurdly high.

“I told you I was coming,” Nat says, slower than he needs her to.

He shrugs, pointing to his ears. But he does look at Nat, now, instead of Daisy. “Couldn’t hear you. And now Lang owes me three pieces.”

Daisy crosses his arms, still doing nothing to cover herself. “Oh?”

With a clear disregard for his own life, Clint gestures at her boobies.

“Well, you’ll never be able to collect, will you. Because he’s never going to know.” But Daisy does put the gun down and begins wrapping her chest. Even with that, and her lumpy shirts and bandanna around her neck, Natasha doesn’t understand how people don’t notice.

But then, the people that don’t know Daisy well and get too close often end up with broken hands and empty pockets.

“You could have turned around at any time,” Natasha tells Clint.

“Then I wouldn’t know if you were talking to me.”

Sighing, Natasha reaches for her shirt. “Are we sailing soon?”

“I wasn’t going to let you sleep through loading.”

“Last chance,” she says, and Daisy sighs.

“I’ll see you when you get back.” She leans in to give Natasha a kiss, and then shoves past Clint and out the door.

Clint tries to raise his eyebrows even higher, and it makes her want to yank the wrinkles on his forehead and see how far they stretch. “Not one more word,” she says.

  


* * *

 

 

 

“You’re going to count it?” the clerk asks in disbelief. “You’re going to unpack it all and count it?”

No. If they want to set sail the next day, that’s goddamn impractical. “I’m going to write down every goddamn pound of hardtack and meat that comes out of this box,” Sam says. “If it’s anything less than a month’s rations for eighty men, I’m going to note every complaint, every minute, every second I spend scrounging for food, managing the men’s whining,” or preventing a goddamn mutiny like had happened the last time they’d relied on this fuck to be good on his word. “And I will take every second of my time wasted back to make your life a living hell. You know who I am, you know I can do it. Do you understand me?”

The clerk scowls. “Yes.”

“Now is there anything you need to add to those barrels?”

The clerk scowls a little more. “Yes.”

“Great!” Sam claps him on the shoulder. He wouldn’t have minded a fight, right then, but he’s sure there are more fights in his future. “Steve, did you hear that?”

“I heard it,” Steve says, his head popping out from behind the wall of barrels he’d been counting. “Are we going to have to make space for more, or is he going to repack the ones that are full of dirt?”

Sam glares at the clerk. “He’s going to repack the ones that are full of dirt.”

“I don’t know which—”

“Well, _figure it out.”_

Jesus. Half Sam’s men turned to piracy just so that merchants would stop fucking them over. They have a message to uphold, here.

Someone bellows on the street behind them, growing steadily louder— it takes a moment to recognize a shout of “Wilson!”, and Sam sighs, backing out of the old warehouse, turning slowly with one eye still on the clerk.

“If you’re looking for a Wilson who owes you money, it’s probably Wade—” and he finishes his turn uncomfortably close to Captain Rumlow’s burned, scowling face.

He’s not going to take a step back, though. “What?”

“I know it was you.” Rumlow doesn’t say it as much as holler it, and some heads start appearing in windows. A few people step out onto one of the inn’s balconies across the street, although Sam isn’t sure those balconies are sturdy enough for human feet. If bystanders fall onto Rumlow, they’ll have a real party on their hands.

“You know… what was me?” His ship. It’s obviously his ship, because nobody had missed the explosion last night, or failed to join the panicked rush to the beach. Sam had lost hours of sleep pacing the _Avenger,_ making sure nary a spark went near her, even as far away from the blaze as she was.

“You burned my ship, you murdered my crew, you—”

“What the fuck?” Sam says it loud enough to be heard by everyone. “I somehow caused your powder to explode? You accusing me of witchcraft?”

“You set it off!”

“You think I, what, swam out to your ship, slipped past your watch, lit your powder, let your ship burn, and swam away without a scratch? This a joke?”

Rumlow leans closer. Sam doesn’t think he’s ever seen the man’s face this close: can he even eat properly, the way his mouth is melted? Sam’s never seen him try. “Because you and your goddamn coward of a captain knew you couldn’t win a fair vote—”

“Sorry, what was that?” Steve finally emerges from behind his wall of ration barrels, stepping up on Sam’s left. Rumlow rounds on him.

“I said you—”

“I heard what you said. And I’m sorry about the losses on your crew. But coming out here making baseless accusations won’t bring them back.” The thing is, Steve probably _is_ sorry about the deaths. He’s probably thinking of his own crew in Spanish fire, and Sam would do something disgusting like give him a hug if it weren’t so public a place. And if he wasn’t still a little mad at him, although the anger is getting hard to sustain.

“My ship blows up the night before I challenge you,” Rumlow laughs. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Except I was at the Scale when it happened. Surrounded by men.”

“Then _he_ did it.”

Sam is starting to _wish_ he’d done it. He holds out an arm. “I smell like I’ve been playing in gunpowder? Or like I just took a damn bath?”

Rumlow is going to lose momentum, and it’s going to be in front of everybody, and it’s going to be goddamn hilarious. That’s what he gets for being a shitfaced crewstealing motherfucker. And maybe the men he had on watch didn’t have it coming, because burning to death is a terrible way to go— but it might not have been as bad as living and facing Rumlow’s anger.

“Anyone on your crew coulda done it, under your orders.”

“Well you’re welcome to go try and sniff up the crew, but don’t come running to me if one of them guts you.”

“Stick your nose anywhere near me and I’ll cut it off.” Natasha is edging out from the main door of the inn, followed by Clint and Davey Johnson. “Fuck’s this about?”

“He thinks we blew up his ship,” Steve says, still with the gentle tone he’d use on a small child, if he ever met a small child.

“The… _Crossbones_ exploded?” Natasha blinks, and Sam realizes that he hadn’t seen her at all last night while everyone was carrying on. “When did this happen?”

“Middle of the night,” Sam says, trying not to be suspicious. “Where the fuck were you?”

She has the decency to look embarrassed, before glancing back to Johnson. “Very distracted, apparently.”

Johnson crosses his arms, mouth twitching.

Smug bastard.

A glob of Rumlow’s spit lands in the dirt. “You’ll see me again, Rogers.”

Instead of looking frightened— and they shouldn’t be, Rumlow has no ship and what’s now a pattern of fire that’s going to make his crew nervous— Steve looks concerned. “Goodbye, Rumlow. I’m genuinely sorry about your men.”

Rumlow just spits again, before storming off down the road.

Hundreds of eyes watch him go.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s odd to walk into Fury’s office in broad daylight. But the Scale is deserted today: the people who aren’t spreading gossip are down at the beach, inspecting the damage.

Natasha just hopes Fury isn’t with them. It’s not like he— well, he does, technically, live in his office, there’s a bed there and everything, but sometimes he leaves the building. He’s there today, though, answering when she knocks.

Hill’s there with him. It’s been too long since Natasha and Maria have had drinks. They should do that when she gets back.

If she gets back.

With an ally secured and Rumlow dealt with, Hydra seems more like a threat than it had before. They’d spent so long trying to make it to the fight that Natasha hadn’t had time to think about the fight itself. But she’s thinking about it now, with the taste of smoke still in her mouth.

“Natasha,” Fury says. He holds up a teacup. “Drink?”

One never turns down the honor of a Nick Fury teacup. She pulls up a second chair, and sits down.

“Quite an eventful night.” Maria notes. “I hear you missed it.”

Natasha takes the pitcher of rum and fills her cup. “Mm, yes. I was quite busy at the time.”

“And how is Daisy Johnson?”

She didn’t tell them that. Natasha tries not to freeze, but they catch her slip— they’re both wearing near-identical expressions of amusement.

_Coulson._

“Fine,” she says. “How the fuck did you hear about that? That was like, twenty minutes ago.”

Fucking pirates. Fury doesn’t even answer, instead leaning back in his chair. “Word is that Rumlow blames Rogers.”

“Does word think he’s right?”

“No,” Fury says. “I heard Rogers and Wilson made a pretty convincing argument. Why, do you think Rumlow’s right?”

Natasha sips her rum like the proper English lady she never had to pretend to be. “Well, I was busy last night, you understand. But I can say with confidence that Rogers didn’t hatch a plan to burn the _Crossbones_.”

They’ve guessed, they must have guessed, and she’s all but confirming it now. There’s no point in hiding it: Fury’s position here depends on his being able to predict every outcome, to imagine the end of every scenario. It doesn’t matter _who_ did it as much as who _believes_ who did it. Knowing the answer won’t matter to him.

“Interesting,” Fury says.

“Quite.” She waits for a moment, until their attention is on her, and then says, “Tony Stark is still hiding out with Rogers.”

They hadn’t guessed at that one.

When she leaves, a few rounds of gossip later, it’s to see Lehnsherr sitting in the empty tavern. At first she thinks he’s waiting to talk to Fury, but then she realizes that he’s glaring at Xavier’s door.

Right.

She watches for a few seconds, but just as he looks like he’s about to stand up and approach it, he sees her. At which point he makes a face, turns around like she hadn’t just seen him lurking like an idiot, and storms out.


	7. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Quill and Gamora separately contemplate murder, Erik and Steve argue about narrative relevance, Sam reflects on his life, and a Stalemate is reached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been staring at this chapter for two months, so apologies and thanks to the people who are still around. It's been a weird fall, my guys.

Peter Quill has had better days.

Those days include: the ones spent on a prison ship, with chains on his ankles and nothing but suffering in his future. Days spent in a cell, eating shitty food with shittier company and sitting in shit. Days in the street, with whips cutting into his back and stolen things in his pockets.

“I mean, he practically raised me,” Peter laments, glaring at the receding ship. “How could he do this?”

None of his companions give him an answer. They’re all glaring, too, though they have different targets for their ire: the dwarf with the two black eyes is looking at the barrel of water, like he’s calculating how long it will last and not liking the answer; the tall giant is sticking his hand in the sea, licking it, scowling at the salty taste, and then starting over again; the broad giant is looking at the dory itself, tapping the side with no sense of rhythm; and the woman is staring at Peter, as though their current situation is all his fault.

Which is not fair.

“I thought of him as my father!” Peter adds, because while none of them seem to care at all about his pain, he still needs to shout it.

“It makes perfect sense, then,” the woman says, shrugging one muscular shoulder. “Fathers are bastards.” She does not offer any more wisdom on this point.

Peter sighs, looking away from his unwilling companions to where the _Ravager_ is barely a dot in the distance.

There’s nothing else but flat blue, above and below them until the earth curves.

“I am Groot!” the tall giant says, spitting out a mouthful of sea water.

“Excellent idea,” Peter says. “Introductions!” He should befriend this… these… well, they’re not a crew, and he’s not even sure he can call them a group. But if they can work together, maybe they can row the dory to safety.

And if he can get to know them, he’ll also know who to throw overboard, if the time comes. The giants— one of whom is apparently called Groot— will be good rowers, but they’ll also need more water.

“I’m Peter Quill,” he says. “Formerly of Carolina. Took a ship to London, got caught stealing in London, now here I am.”

“I am Groot,” says Groot.

“Yes, you said.”

“That’s _all_ he says,” says the dwarf. “Ever since he got keelhauled by the goddamn navy. I’m Rocket, and I would kill you all if I had to, so don’t get any ideas.”

“I am Groot,” Groot says again.

“Except you, you idiot.” Rocket pats Groot on the arm. It’s a difficult maneuver, wedged in as they are— he ends up causing the dory to rock gently back and forth. It makes the broad giant lean towards the other side, nearly capsizing them altogether.

Up close, the water is black, not blue.

“I’m Gamora,” the woman says. She produces a long knife that she definitely did not have back on the ship, and Peter tenses— but she just starts picking at some imaginary dirt under her water-soft fingernails. “You would not find it easy to kill me, either.”

“Nobody’s killing anybody,” Peter protests, as though he had not been considering that very thing just moments ago. The knife gives her an advantage: she could slit any of their throats, and there would be nothing for the rest of them to do about it. A fight— even a tussle— would result in everyone going to their watery deaths. “We just need to work together and come up with a plan.”

“I get too thirsty, I kill you and drink your blood,” the broad giant says. “That is a plan.”

“Come up with a _good_ plan,” Rocket interjects. The boat is shifting slowly with the wind, and his eyes are in shadow now, making him look even more like a raccoon than he had before. “Killing Quill is a bad plan, because he doesn’t have very much blood. Killing you, on the other hand—”

The broad giant stands up, the boat rocks, and Peter flings himself at the water barrel, just barely managing to keep it from floating off. “Woah, woah, woah, woah!”

“—is looking better and better,” Rocket finishes.

Groot vomits over the side. That’s too bad: they have no food, and he’ll need what was in his stomach.

“Nobody is killing no-one!” Peter says, again. “At least, not right now!”

The broad giant sits, sending them rocking again.

“He has a point. This water will not last us more than two days, especially with no food.” Gamora speaks carefully, properly— as though she had learned English late in life from someone very posh. “And we are still leagues from the colonies.”

“There could be islands.” Peter looks around again, but he doesn’t see anything but sea, sea, sea, in all directions. It’s disturbing. After a few days, it might be maddening. He’d always loved ships, always wanted to go sailing with Yondu when when he was young, but he would have preferred something other than a rowboat with four criminals and no sense of—

Wait.

“There was a whole fleet of prison ships,” he says. “They’ve got to be coming this way, right? The pirates won’t have gotten to the ones behind us. If we stay here maybe one will come by, pick us up.” They have no glass to search, no way to hail them, and a very small chance of being seen. But those are problems he doesn’t know how to begin solving.

“Survive the pirates only to go back under the deck?” Rocket scowls. “I don’t think so.”

“Would you rather die out here?”

The dwarf considers for a second. “Nahhhh.”

“And you?” Peter looks at Gamora. She’ll have the worst time of all of them, back on the ship.

She raises an eyebrow. “Behold, the thief is chivalrous.”

“You don’t have to mock.”

“Nobody can stop me.” She tilts her knife so it reflects the sun, and Peter has to close his eyes to avoid being blinded. Jesus. “How about another plan: we wait for the next ship, we get them to take us aboard, we kill the crew, release the prisoners and make them _our_ crew, and become pirates.”

“I like the plan,” says Rocket.

It’s… certainly more detailed and forward-thinking than ‘get sent to a plantation to die slowly.’ And it might even be easier than killing Groot, or the other giant whose name Peter still doesn’t know. On the ship, he’d only known the names of the people chained up near him. Peter had talked to them a lot. Sometimes they had talked back. He’d talked some more when the pirates came, but when he saw Yondu, his words had become less than excellent. Which, come to think of it, might be how he ended up in a dory with the only four other people the pirates didn’t want.

Peter is going to have to do a lot of drinking to get over this, but he’s not going to be able to do it on this boat. Anyway, he’s already a thief. Being a pirate would just make him a richer thief.

“What if the other prisoners can’t sail?” he asks.

They all consider this.

“Maybe we leave some of the crew alive,” Gamora allows.

“And you really believe we can kill them all? We only have one blade, and they’ll have pistols. And swords.”

“We also have oars,” the broad giant says. He picks one up, testing its weight. “I could bash many heads with these oars.”

“I am Groot,” says Groot.

Peter eyes Rocket. “And what about you, raccoon?” It’s not clear if he could even climb the side of a ship, much less get into a fight, although the state of his eyes suggests he’s survived at least one in the recent past.

“Who the fuck are you calling a raccoon?” Rocket demands. “What the fuck is a raccoon?”

“It’s… an animal,” Peter says. “With black around its eyes. They live in the colonies.”

 _“They live in the colonies,”_ Rocket mimics. “I’m the best shot anyone has ever seen. Just get me a pistol. Or a bottle of shit and a match.”

“I… can’t.”

“Fine. When we get on board, someone kill a man and give me his pistol, and then I’ll show you.”

This is the kind of enthusiasm Peter likes to see.

“And you?” Gamora asks. “What do you contribute to this plan?”

“I can also fight.” Peter doesn’t have a good history of _winning_ , exactly, but he’s definitely fought a lot. He doesn’t need to be specific. “And I helped come up with the plan, so I think I should get some credit for that.”

Her eyes narrow. " _I_ came up with the plan.”

“I came up with the prison ship part!”

“I am Groot!”

Peter slumps as much as he can without going overboard.

 

* * *

 

 

When Erik thinks of Friday nights, he thinks of his childhood in the Lancars’ living room. If space had allowed, it would have held all the Jewish families in Port Royal: everyone knew that Mr. Lancar had the best voice for prayer. Just loud enough to be heard, but perfectly pitched to carry the rest of them with him. The right tone to keep sleepy boys engaged. Even now, years later, Erik still hears most prayers in his voice.

He and Kitty don’t always have time to meet on Friday evenings, but when they do, it’s nothing but hurried whispers. They don’t light candles on the ship, and they usually have punch or rum instead of wine— but sometimes, it’s enough to feel like he hasn’t abandoned his family entirely.

Other times, he wonders why he bothers. It’s not as though they can truly keep the Sabbath. But Kitty keeps showing up, and so he continues.

Tonight, Captain Rogers is waiting for him when Kitty leaves. He’s leaning against the wall outside the captain’s cabin, staring down Raven. Arms crossed, fingers tap-tap-tapping against his elbow like he’s keeping time to a tune.

He gives Kitty’s retreating form a mistrustful frown, and then gives Erik and Raven a disapproving one.

Fine. Erik knows how it looks. But people can believe what they want: if anything, it just means the crew leaves Kitty alone. None of them have tried anything since she joined, when she was even smaller than she is now. When she stowed away on the ship, sneaking around for days like she could walk through walls.

Rogers enters Erik’s cabin without an invitation, closing the door behind him and taking the two steps to the empty chair. Erik remains behind his desk and watches.

“Who was that?” Rogers asks, painfully casual. Of all the pirates to have scruples, Erik cannot understand how it’s the man who burned two ships full of Spanish soldiers alive. And maybe Rumlow’s as well. What gives him the fucking right to stand here in judgment?

“A member of my crew,” Erik says.

Rogers looks past him, at the stack of books, the small window, the hammock, until there’s nothing else to see, and then— “how old is she?”

“Older than you were when you first set sail. Her virtue is safe with me, Captain. I assure you.”

It’s unlikely that Rogers will take Erik’s assurance for anything, but he grits his teeth and smiles, eyes drifting back to the books. There’s only a handful. One of them is a Bible that Erik had brought on board more for Charles’s baffled expression than any other purpose.

Thinking of Charles makes him want to reach for a chess piece he’d given away— the one he’d taken to worrying between his thumb and forefinger when he thought about how Charles would receive it. _Idiot._

“Come for some reading material?” he asks.

Rogers blinks, like he’d forgotten that he hadn’t explained his presence. “No, sorry. I… actually came to talk about Stark.”

Stark’s freedom now sits in a bamboo tube, hidden in this cabin. A detailed distribution of shares. Erik had thought that settled the matter. “What about him?”

“What are we going to do with him?”

“Excuse me?”

“No, not like that. But what are we going to _do_ with him? Does he sail on the _Avenger_ tomorrow, or the _Hellfire?”_ Rogers looking around the room again, and Erik suspects that he wants to comment on the fact that the _Hellfire_ shouldn’t have a captain’s cabin at all, except— “if he was kept in here, it might make him look more like a prisoner.”

“And he’d be out of your way.”

Rogers shrugs, as if to say _who, me?_ “If he’s sleeping in the hammocks with my men, someone might try and mess with him, or he might try and hire my entire crew out from under me.”

He might be exaggerating. The _Avenger’s_ crew seems dedicated. Loyal. But few men are loyal when the money stops.

“Aren’t you worried about leaving him here with me?” Erik doesn’t remember exactly what Rogers said to Charles, but he wants Rogers to know that he knows. “With my tendency towards violence?”

Rogers sighs. He’s got a look on his face that Erik knows well: one that says Charles Xavier just fucked him over, and he doesn’t see a way out.

Ah, fuck it. “Fair’s fair,” Erik says. “I believe I told Charles you were a self-righteous equivocating shitfucker.”

The look Rogers is giving him? That look is probably why his quartermaster follows him around like that. That half smirk, half-smile, with the promise of future violence. “I think,” and Rogers pauses for a second, rummaging in the sack he brought with him, “I think we might have gotten off wrong-footed.” He puts a bottle of wine down on the desk.

Well, if insulting him is the way to go, Erik can work with that. Unless this is a ploy— but if it is, well, he wants to see how it ends. Rogers always seems earnest, but there’s no better way to hide a liar.

Erik isn’t sure which version of the man would annoy him more. One who is constantly playing the game, or one who’s that genuine.

He rummages in his drawer for mugs.

“If we’re to be sailing together,” Rogers continues, “it seems we should be able to cooperate.”

“All right.”

Rogers isn’t wrong, is the thing. As long as he and Erik are looking at each other, there will be no one left to look at Hydra.

And beyond that— Erik wants this alliance to work.

Not just because he wants to prove something to Charles. He just—

Well. Maybe he does want to prove something to Charles.

But he can’t do that. Can’t live his damn life like that. He’ll do what he has to and Charles will either understand, or he won’t, and they’ll both have to live with the consequences. Because Erik has better things to do than to live for a man who no longer loves him.

If he had any damn sense, he’d abandon this whole plan.

Except he fucking _hates_ Hydra. Hates everything Shaw touched with his disgusting hands. Hates the empires that tried to chase his people out of Europe, then out of Jamaica, like Port Royal was theirs to take.

He finds his mugs, and hands one over.

“Erik Lehnsherr of the _Hellfire,”_ he says. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Rogers smiles.

Yes, Erik understands why men do such stupid things for that smile. But he won’t be one of them.

“Stephen Rogers, of the _Avenger._ Call me Steve.”

“Erik, then.”

“Erik the Red, I’ve heard.” Rogers— Steve— takes a drink. “It’s colorful.”

“It’s a joke.” In the name of earning the man’s trust, even if Steve may never earn his, Erik gives this fact away for free. It’s not as though it can harm him, so he gestures to the books. “Charles started calling me Erik the Read— as in, well-read. My reputation took that in a different direction.”

It’s as open an invitation as he’s going to give Steve to ask about said reputation, with which he seems so concerned. Instead, Steve looks down at his wine.

“Can I ask why you and Xavier are fighting? Is it business, or—”

“It’s personal.” Erik says it too sharply for the calm persona he was trying to create, and he shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I understand.” And maybe he does. Sam Wilson has been drinking alone lately.

Maybe Erik should ask about that, let Steve knows he knows— if there’s a chance the _Avenger_ might be under new leadership soon, then that’s going to have an impact on their plans. But from what he knows of Sam Wilson, the man is just as reckless, just as dedicated as Steve.

“Tell me about yourself,” he says instead.

Steve frowns. “Like what?”

“Anything. I told you about the name.”

“All right.” Steve takes a drink of wine, considering. “I’m from Ireland.”

“I know. You don’t sound Irish.”

“Well, I tried to fit in in London. Got in the habit. No one cares much out here, but…” his voice changes. “You should see me when I’m drunk.”

According to Charles, no one has ever seen the man drunk for more than a few minutes at a time. Erik smiles a little.

“Where are you from?” Steve asks, accent changing back.

“Jamaica.” He doesn’t sound very Jamaican either: it’s safer here, to be from nowhere. With no connections to his remaining family.

He’d rather they remember him as little Max Eisenhardt, the little boy who ran away to sea.

It’s better than imagining this.

It’s not that he regrets anything he’s done, but he doesn’t want any of them to have to carry it.

“I heard your family were Sea Beggars,” Steve says. “Of course, I also heard your family were German Princes.”

“Neither of those, I’m afraid,” though safer to be thought of as Protestant. “They were from that area, though. Got chased out by the Spanish.”

That’s one thing all English pirates can agree on, at least. God bless the Spanish for sailing ships of gold across the sea, but also, fuck them, fuck their kings and fuck their mothers.

Steve takes another drink. His eyes are thoughtful, and Erik has a feeling he knows what’s coming.

“Ask,” he says. He might even answer.

“That man you woolded,” Rogers says. “Who was he?”

“A man I knew.” Erik tries to block the rage that always comes when he thinks of Shaw: red hot anger and gunshots and blood and voices screaming. “He taught me to sail.”

“What did he do to you?”

“To me?” Voices sharper than whips. A world reformed. “Nothing out of the ordinary. But he tortured, he killed some of my friends. He ruined my parents to teach me a lesson. I grew up, and I organized a mutiny. He escaped: turned himself into Hydra, started hunting pirates after the war ended. So we hunted him instead. We caught him. I killed him. And then I took his ship.” Erik gestures to the room. “Every night, I sleep where he slept. Where he thought he was safe. So I won’t forget what he taught me.” Sometimes, he laughs himself sick over it. Sometimes, he has nightmares. Sometimes they’re loud enough that whoever is on watch will come and bang on his door, telling him to shut it.

It’s not how other people would manage it. It’s not, perhaps, the best way.

But the day he killed Shaw he lost some of his purpose. He’d lost all of Charles. So he’ll take what he still has: rage, and reminders.

Steve is still staring at him, and he doesn’t look like he understands, but he doesn’t have Charles’s judgmental frown, either. He looks like he’s waiting for more, but Erik doesn’t have anything else to tell him.

It’s not as though the story of Shaw is a secret. Charles knows. Raven knows. Azazel and Janos and Emma and the Summers boys and Cassidy and Darwin all know.

“I think I heard part of that, once. But in it Shaw was your father, and he had killed your mother and slept with your wife.”

Erik’s heard that one as well. It’s half right, about his mother. But he shrugs. “And you? How did you go on the account?”

“The normal way.,” Steve says. “I had a friend growing up— when he joined the Navy, I followed him. Pay was awful, food was awful, captain was awful, crew was awful. Joined the merchant service after the war, and it was worse. Eventually the ship was chased by a pirate crew, and when they asked for volunteers, I went with them.”

A boring start for such a storied man. “Whose ship was it?”

“One of Carter’s. The _Endeavor_ — captained by Erksine, before he died and Phillips took over. When it got too crowded, I took the _Howl,_ and we agreed to split off.” He takes another drink. “You know how that went, I assume.”

“I’d love to hear it from you.”

Steve shakes his head.

“I told you my story,” Erik points out.

“They caught us, some of us escaped, most of us died. It’s not _my story.”_

Erik uses his past: wraps it around himself and shows it to the world. _This is the man who woolded a captain. This is a man with no mercy._ But Steve Rogers hides. He shoves it away and thinks _don’t look, don’t look._

Is he ashamed?

It’s his defining story, whether he wants it to be or not. He was a moderately respected captain who was no longer a part of Carter’s great fleet. And then he sailed into Nassau’s port broken, leaving a trail of ashes in his wake, and he was a legend.

“Everything you have now was built on that tale,” he can’t resist saying.

“I don’t want it.”

  
“Some advice, from one notorious pirate to another. Let it define you. Use that story to strike down your enemies. Otherwise, it will use you.”

Steve takes another drink. “I think,” he says, “you see the world very differently.”

Perhaps.

“Is it the men you lost, that haunt you? Or is it what you did?” Erik’s sunk ships with men on board, and sometimes he still hears it. The loudest sound at sea is the absence of screams where there had just been some. Men’s lives and hopes sinking to the bottom, pawns in a game they couldn’t escape. That they might not even have understood.

Steve frowns, though Erik doesn’t think it’s at him. He also doubts he’ll get an answer, but it doesn’t stop him from pushing.

“It’s a powerful feeling, watching your enemies burn.”

The frown increases. “I didn’t burn the _Crossbones,_ if that’s what you’re asking.”

It hadn’t been, but that was a quick denial. “Of course not.” Erik smiles. “Lots of people saw you all night. As lots of people saw me.”

“You think I sent someone to do it?”

Honestly, he doesn’t. Rogers isn’t really the type. “Or someone did it on their own.”

“Could have been someone from your crew, too.”

“As far as I know, only Raven and I knew there was something amiss. And Raven would go for the kill.” She’d been telling Erik not to kill Rumlow, but she must have thought about doing the deed herself. If Raven had done it, Rumlow would be disappeared somewhere off Hog Island. “Who did you tell?”

Steve raises his palms. “Wilson. Romanoff. But I saw Wilson a few times that night, and Romanff was shacked up with someone… Maybe it really was a fluke with the powder. We should just let it be.”

Did anyone actually see Romanoff that night?

Had Erik seen Raven?

Does it matter?

“Yes,” Erik agrees. “Let’s.” He pours himself some more wine. “Is Wilson your friend?”

Steve starts a bit. “What?”

“Your friend, that you said you joined up with. Wilson?” It seems unlikely, but there are odder pairs. Like the son of a good family, trying to make his fortune in Jamaica, throwing his lot in with a poor Jew.

“No. I mean, yes, he’s my friend, but I met him later. The friend that I joined up with was… lost, a few weeks before the Spanish.”

That’s a common story, too. Death comes easy everywhere, but especially at sea.

Any prize could be his last. But this one— this one has a much higher chance than most.

It’s the first time Erik has thought about that.

 

* * *

 

Gamora was ten, the first time she saw moonlight on snow. She hadn’t liked snow until then, but in the moonlight it was enchanting. The way the ground glowed. How she could see clear as day. She’d snuck outside and imagined that it was dark for everyone else, and this world— just slightly off from the normal one— was only for her.

She’d thought she was in some sort of magical realm. Somewhere worth the cold, and the fear, and the loss of home.

Moonlight on the water isn’t quite as bright as that. But as she passes between sleep and wakefulness, she imagines that that long stripe of light leads somewhere, if only they could follow it. Somewhere bright and warm and—

But she’s not a child.

She’s a grown woman on a boat with four men she does not trust, and she doesn’t have time for fantasies.

Instead she digs her thumbnail into her leg, trying to keep herself awake. Although wakefulness isn’t an effort the others aren’t making: Rocket and Groot are curled up together against the water barrel, and Drax is sprawled out, taking up more space than he’s been allowed to for those weeks in transit. This leaves her and Quill on the other side of the barrel, but she can’t tell if he’s sleeping or not.

If any ships pass them at night, they might not even notice. If they do, there will be no way to signal them. They don’t even have something with which to start a fire, and they have nothing to burn.

The fishing dory, and all her occupants, will be lost.

And if they’re lost…

Well, then she’ll have won, won’t she? Thanos will never find her here. She’ll die, but she’ll have won.

She’ll take whatever victory she can get.

“So,” Quill says, and she nearly jumps. Nearly. Instead she tightens her grip around the knife handle. “Where are you from?”

“What?”

“Just making conversation.”

That’s not a conversation, that’s a trap. Where is she from? She thinks of the bright sun of Quisqueya. The voice of her mother. Thanos’s cracked smile, and his ship. “I lived in London,” she says, because it’s not a lie. “And yourself?”

That’s something she’d learned from Thanos. People love talking about themselves: they’ll do it so much that they’ll forget you’ve never answered. The secrets are there, if one has a way of finding them, and the knife is there if the secrets get stuck.

But Quill takes the bait.

He talks about growing up in the Colonies and sailing with the pirate who had just left them stranded, and she tries to listen, in case he says something useful. “We went to London, you know, because people were starting to know his face around the coasts, and anyway he thought he could get some better prices there. Longest trip we ever took: the crew nearly mutinied three times. I was so glad to be off that ship that I scampered as soon as we docked. Made myself scarce to avoid the press gang, and then I never found the crew again. Until now, I suppose.” He stops for a few seconds. “Maybe he left me there on purpose. Maybe the crew made him. Some of them didn’t like me none, I have that effect on people. Or maybe he thought I’d just do better in London.”

Thanos would never have let her go. But he’s left others: he buys up children and tells them he’s their new father. But the ones that don’t meet his standards—

“Maybe that’s why he left me here,” Quill says. “There was no reason not to take Drax and Groot: they’re strong. Maybe he thought he was helping me survive, leaving them with me.”

Gamora tries not to roll her eyes.

Yondu left behind the simpleton, the dwarf, the fool, the negro woman and a man who might want vengeance for his abandonment. There’s just as good a chance that Yondu assumed that they would all kill each other. They’ll likely die soon enough either way— if he’d really wanted them to row to safety, he’d have told them where land was, and how far. He just wasn’t man enough to kill Quill himself.

It’s not that difficult to understand, but to explain this to Quill might make him miserable and she needs him motivated. It will be hard to take a ship with five underfed convicts, but harder still with four.

And yet somehow, she cannot bring herself to lie to him. “If it helps you to think so,” she says. She considers saying _I ran away from my father, and I hope to live to see him killed,_ in the hopes of inspiring Quill to the same. But she doesn’t trust him enough for that.

Shouldn’t ever trust him.

He’s a criminal coming from London. All these men are criminals from London. They may well know Thanos, or of him. And if that’s the case, they’ve either worked for him, or hate him, or both, and she won’t win herself friends on any side.

And yet. If she’s about to die— if she’s going to die, then she’ll tell them where she comes from. Because the ocean is vast and out here they are nothing, but if she’s going to die, she wants to die as herself.

But they’re not going to die.

At least, not here.

Because after the moon disappears and the sky lightens, after Drax takes a precarious shit over the side, after she sees a smudge that she thinks is a fancy that resolves into a ship—

Quill says, “Drax, Groot. Take off your shirts.”

“I am Groot?”

“They’re the biggest! You can wave them around, like a flag, and then we’re all going to scream, ready? One— two—”

Gamora thinks of the sound of the wind and the creaking of ships and the moving of sails.

“Three—”

They scream anyway.

 

* * *

 

Sam first met the Captain of the Americas in a footrace. It was an informal round of betting and cheering on Nassau’s beach, with dense sand that gave way under his toes and a rotting smell in the air. He’d met Steve Rogers some weeks later at Luke’s, when he joined him in a shadowy corner.

“I was going to buy you a drink,” Sam had said, “but I’m not sure you need another one.”

It looked like people had been buying Steve drinks all night. Hero of Nassau, hero of the English, hero of Fuck The Spanish.

“It takes a lot to get me drunk,” Steve had said. Then— “Hey, I know you. From that race.”

Steve was the first person Sam hadn’t outrun since he fled Jamaica. “I’m flattered.”

“You should be. You were… Endurance. Long distance. Most sailors can’t run very far.”

“Not very far to go, on a ship.”

Steve had said he wasn’t drunk, but Sam hadn’t really believed it. He’d managed to drive everyone else away, yet he didn’t look like he should be alone.

So Sam sat, wondering why he was doing it.

“Who do you sail with?” Steve asked. He didn’t ask like he cared about an answer, but Sam gave him one anyway.

“No one, now. I was part of Barnet’s crew, but then Sitwell mutinied— and then he stormed off to work for Fury. Barnet said he didn’t want captain a bunch of mutinous shits and took himself and his remaining shares to Boston, so now there aren’t enough men supporting any captain to steer a canoe.”

Steve laughed. “Funny,” he said. “I’m sailing with no one too. Killed most of my last crew.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“And what did you hear?” He kept smiling.

Not drunk, Sam’s ass.

“I heard you did what you had to, and saved more lives than anyone else could have. Did more damage than anyone else could have.”

“That’s a nice story,” Steve said. He reached for another cup, but Sam caught his hand.

“You have somewhere you can sleep?”

“Is that a proposition?”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to ruin any chance you have of recruiting new men if you keep this up.”

Steve broke Sam’s hold, but he didn’t reach for the rum. “And you want to be one of those men?”

“Do I want to sail under a captain who’s eight mugs deep and thinks he’s sober? Not really.” So few men here have lost everything, because so few of them had anything to start with. It was nice to meet someone who knows the feeling. Not that Sam would wish it on anyone, but— the was something here, maybe, and Sam wanted to know what it was. “If you want a new crew, come find me in the morning.”

Steve caught Sam’s arm, that time. “Want to help me with these drinks?”

Sam doesn’t remember much between that and Natasha throwing sand in his face the next morning.

That had been a year and a half ago.

Now, Sam is haunting a table at the Scale, trying to eat what passes for food. If anyone asks, he’s here to make sure he knows all the gossip. Mostly, he’s keeping an eye on the remains of Rumlow’s crew, who are drinking somberly in the corner, and a group of Lehnsherr’s, who are also watching Rumlow’s. Captain Rumlow himself is nowhere to be seen.

But Lehnsherr had wandered in a little while ago. Instead of sitting with his men, he’s watching Xavier’s door.

Sam’s crew is scattered about town, celebrating their last night on land. Except for Clint and Nat, who he’s left to guard Stark.

Better to keep them out of the way, and nurse his suspicions in private.

Not private for long, though. Steve sits down across from him. Hands folded in front of him, as if in prayer.

“I spoke with Lehnsherr.” Steve is hardly audible over the rest of the room. “He’ll take Stark on his ship, at least for the first leg. I think we’ve… well, I think we understand each other.”

“Good.”

“I’m not sure we agree, but we understand. So I guess that’s something.”

“There’s a lot of that going around, huh?” Sam asks. It slips out before he can stop it, and Steve looks down at the table.

“I,” he says, and then takes a breath. “Are you…” he’s drumming his hand on the table, looking for all the world like he’s just had too much to drink and then got hit in the head for good measure.

“Am I?” Sam prompts, because while he doesn’t exactly have better things to do right now, this is getting a little embarrassing on Steve’s behalf.

“You said you aren’t leaving,” Steve says. “And that’s good, but it’s been— are we still, can we be still…”

Sam waits.

“Friends,” he finishes lamely.

There’s no one in earshot that Sam can see, and thank god for the roar of the place, because the last thing they need right now is other people thinking there’s something wrong with them.

“We’re friends, Steve. I’m just—” _reevaluating my place in your life, my place in_ my _life, my trust in you._ None of those things are helpful to say. Because the thing is, now that he’s spent lots of time thinking (obsessing) over it, he’s realized that this is exactly what he would have thought Steve would do if he’d had all the facts in advance.

And Sam cares about him anyway, so that’s Sam’s fault. Sam never claimed to be the master strategist.

“You’re?”

“I don’t know.”

Steve has been the most important person in his life since they woke up hungover on the beach: he just forgot that it didn’t mean the reverse was also true.

“I’d do it for you,” Steve says. “And every day I think God I haven’t had to. I know you said to lie— but— I didn’t. I’d— I’d burn down both worlds, old and new. If I had to. For you. So. That’s how it is.”

The words make something funny go off in Sam’s chest. Something childish and irrelevant to the mission at hand.

“I don’t want you to lie to the crew for me, Steve.” Or burn down the world.

Although it means everything to him that he’d consider it.

“Alright.”

Sam turns back to his food.

“I’d probably do it anyway, though,” Steve adds.

It occurs to Sam that Bucky Barnes may have words for Steve when they get him back.

“Well, I wouldn’t do it for you.” Sam realizes it’s a lie even as he says it— and the face Steve makes is goddamn heartbroken, before he gets it under control. Sam puts his knife down. “I’d rescue you,” he says. “I’d obviously come rescue you. Fuck, alright, I might even lie about my intentions, who the fuck knows.” The idea of Steve being taken from him like that is…

He doesn’t know how to imagine it. But this is the world they live in. Steve is another person that anyone can take away at any time, and Sam should have known better than to get invested. But it was always too late.

“I’m not— I wasn’t— angry that you wanted to save your friend. I’m angry that you didn’t say that’s what you wanted to do in the first place.”

“I do want to free those people.”

“I believe you.” Sam hesitates. “So do I. I just… you used them as an excuse. You used my history as an excuse.” He’d said this the other night, but he doesn’t know how many times will be enough.

“And I’m sorry.”

“Good. Don’t do it again.”

Steve nods, looking so fucking sincere that Sam can hardly handle it.

He points at Lehnsherr with his knife. “So, did you find out what his problem is?”

“With Xavier, or in general?”

Where to even start? “Both?”

“Well, in general, someone fucked him up and I think he deals with it by fucking other people up and claiming it’s for a cause. With Xavier, it’s _personal.”_ Steve raises his eyebrow on the last word. “He wouldn’t say nothin’ else.”

Well, if Lehnsherr pisses Sam off, that gives Sam enough leeway to make up all sorts of rumors.

“Keep an eye on him,” is all he says.

 

* * *

 

Erik stares at Charles’s door, and thinks about Achilles.

He’d loved the story as a boy. Brave man accepts his destiny, fights heroically, avenges the death of his friend and the insult to his city. Erik had imagined his own anger as something similar: bright and just. Immortal, and inevitable.

Achilles would alway win. And Achilles would always die.

“He was given a choice, though,” Charles had reminded him once, partway through boarding a ship. “He was offered a long, unremarkable life, or a short and glorious one. It wasn’t inevitable at all.”

Perhaps. But the real question was, _which do you fear most?_ Because while men can fear anything— pain, hunger, mockery, scorpions— Erik has found that most are guided by one of two:

Death, or insignificance.

Fear of death is simple enough. The urge to live is innate, isn’t it? And most men have been hearing about Hell since they were children. Even when it doesn’t scare them into a life of virtue, it haunts the edges of their minds. Erik likes it that way. A man who wants to live is a man who will do what he’s told when there’s a sword at his throat, and that’s how the crew gets paid.

The second is where it gets messy.

Achilles wanted to matter. Achilles wanted to go down in legend. Achilles threw spears and tore men apart for to do so. Most pirate captains have the same urge— they need it, to be successful. As long as it doesn’t lead to foolishness, the fear can even be a benefit: it’s how Birdie took the _Soderina,_ and Morgan took Panama. Some people might call that bravery, but Erik knows better. And a merchant captain who fancies himself Achilles is one that costs Erik money.

The game is figuring out what type of man he’s dealing with.

The danger is finding out what type of man he is himself.

He’d always fancied himself neither. His name is already feared. It appears in newspapers and pamphlets in Europe and the New World. And maybe it’s not his true name, but it’s his story.

And once he’d killed Shaw, it didn’t seem to matter if he died. He’d done what he came to do.

But then. Charles.

Erik has sailed since Charles left. He’s fought since Charles left. But he hasn’t set out to take ships like this, with the risk so high, and he can’t help but think that if he dies, the man who once knew him best will have nothing but bitter memories and an infamous name, and Erik doesn’t want that.

So maybe he fears both things, after all.

His mug is empty. He could either go refill it, or—

Or he could get up.

He’s hated this. Sailing without Charles at his side. The silence. That constant sense of guilt, even though he hadn’t been the one to mangle Charles’s legs and he hadn’t been the one to avoid him in the aftermath— he’d tried to make peace and _when I see you, I hear screaming._

Maybe Charles doesn’t want to see him. But fuck him, and fuck that. Charles was in the wrong, Charles is a proud arrogant asshole—

Charles opens the door.

Erik hasn’t moved, and Charles doesn’t look like he was expecting to see him: he’s got a mug in one hand, crutch in the other, and he could be considered to be wearing clothes in the sense that most of his body is covered by fabric, but not in the sense that it resembles a shirt and pants. There’s no way for him to miss the fact that Erik was watching his door,: so they stare at each other for a moment, until Charles tilts one of his shoulders back inside the room.

Perhaps if anyone else noticed Erik’s staring, they’ll think he was simply waiting for a meeting.

He stands, and Charles hops backward. Closes the door behind him, and puts his empty mug on his desk.

“Well?” Charles has raised his voice, to be heard over the sound of the lively tavern.

“What are you wearing?”

It’s not what Erik meant to ask.

Charles picks at the… shirt-sack thing. “Well, I can’t look like I’m above myself, can I? I have to stay one of the men.” At Erik’s blank stare, he laughs. “I was just going to stick my head out and shout for more beer, but dressing felt like too much effort. Have you come to play the critic?”

No. No, he came to— “Do you want to play chess?” The board is still on the desk, poorly bundled in the cloth Erik had brought it in: Charles has unwrapped and re-wrapped it more than once. Erik isn’t sure what to do with that knowledge.

Charles squints, eyes nearly disappearing in the firelight. He could easily say that it’s too dark. Could throw Erik out, or start yelling at him again. But he turns and slides the board out instead, shaking the bag of pieces onto the table. They clunk, heavy and metal like small shot. He hides two of the pawns in his fists, and holds them out to Erik.

“Left,” he says.

Charles opens his fist. Black.

They don’t speak as they set up their sides: Erik sits at the edge of Charles’s bed, and Charles in his chair. The board is on the desk, not quite between them, but off to one side.

“Your move,” Erik says.

Apparently Charles had known a certain man when he had been growing up. Under the rushing weight of boredom only the rich have to carry, the man had dedicated himself to the art of chess. He’d learned nearly every combination of moves, and some of their names. Played against himself for hours.

“So he’d always won,” Erik had said, when Charles first told him the story.

“Well, he always lost, as well,” Charles had pointed out.

But it seemed fitting, the rich playing both sides of the board.

Erik has not dedicated himself to the study of chess, but neither has Charles. By now, Erik isn’t even sure they’re playing by the proper rules anymore: sometimes Charles will do something he swears he saw that chess master do, and with no way to prove him wrong, Erik will just wait and turn it on him later. Perhaps through the years their game has become unrecognizable to anyone still tied to Civilization.

But it doesn’t matter, because ten moves in, Erik is winning.

And Charles hasn’t asked him about Rumlow, which probably means that Charles already knows who did it. Or it means Charles and Fury did it.

“You’re thinking very hard,” Charles says quietly. He takes Erik’s castle, which gives Erik an opening to take his in return.

“Maybe I’m focusing on the game.”

“If you say so.”

Accusing Charles of murder and arson isn’t going to help matters any. “The _Crossbones_. Was that you?” But apparently he’s going to do it anyway.

“Me?”

“It’d make sense.” Erik takes Charles’s pawn. “Rumlow came to see me the other night. He doesn’t like you much. Seems to me that if he’s out of power, instead of standing in the street telling everyone that Nick Fury is a lying, thieving son of a bitch, then you’re in a better spot today than you were yesterday. And since you haven’t asked me if _I’d_ done it yet…”

Charles takes one of Erik’s pawns in turn. “It wasn’t me. And I know it wasn’t you. You’d have already taken credit.”

“But you know who did it?”

“Yes.”

“Was it Rogers?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if it was?”

“Yes.”

Just for that, Erik goes for another pawn instead of Charles’s knight.

“Are you going to ask me who it was?” Charles continues, and Erik looks at the board.

He doesn’t think there’s any good that can come from getting the answer like this, so he shakes his head.

“Smart man.” Charles takes Erik’s rook, exposing his bishop, so Erik takes the bishop, exposing his Queen, and in this way they clear most of the board in very little time at all. They can make games last hours when they’re thinking them through, but Erik at least has had too much to drink to bother. He sacrifices pieces just for the sake of something happening.

And then he’s got a king and a knight, Charles just has a king.

Charles moves one square.

Erik moves one square.

“Perhaps,” Charles says, going back one row, “one of us should have planned better.”

For the hell of it, Erik puts his knight in harm’s way. Charles knocks it across the board with the base of his king, and then reaches out and takes it back to put with the pile of Erik’s pieces.

“The hell was that?”

“It didn’t seem fair, having twice your number.”

Charles snorts, and Erik grins. Sometimes— mostly when he’s out at sea— he thinks he’s long past any feelings he ever had for Charles Xavier. That whatever insanity he’d thought had taken hold of him had been worn away by bitter silences and absence.

The illusion tends to last until the next time someone says Charles’s name.

Charles moves to the left. Two squares away, Erik also moves left. Charles moves back, and, lips twitching, Erik does as well.

“Draw?” Charles asks, but Erik just moves forward again, putting the black king next to the white. Charles tries to knock it over, but Erik doesn’t take his hand off of it. “You can’t move into check,” Charles adds, but he doesn’t stop knocking the base of the white king against the black. Erik tries to knock him over in turns, and for a moment they just whack their metal pieces against each other, like they’re two little boys instead of fully grown enemies of the state.

Charles starts to laugh.

It’s a small, fragile thing, but it’s growing and Erik—

Erik kisses him.

Their breath stinks and the stench of Nassau clings to clothes and skin, but they’re here and they’re alive and for just a moment, Erik doesn’t want to be anywhere else. There’s a clunking sound— the white king hitting the board— and then Charles’s hand goes to Erik’s upper arm, jagged fingernails digging into skin. Erik reaches for Charles’s jaw, but instead Charles braces one hand on the table and one on Erik’s shoulder, swinging himself over to join him on the bed, one thigh over Erik’s, mouth back on his.

And that’s great, that’s fine, Erik can work with that— he angles his head a little so Charles misses the sore spot on his gums, and he thinks _are you still angry at me_ but he’s not going to ask, and in fact, it might be better if he just says nothing until—

“I’d forgotten how much pirates smelled,” Charles pulls away to mutter.

“And dear me, I seem to have mistaken the scent of roses and daisies on your breath for bouze.” So he’s failed at not talking, but it makes Charles smile. At least, Erik thinks he’s smiling. It’s hard to tell in the faint light, but Charles works a hand into Erik’s pants so he can’t be too upset about it. Erik doesn’t know if Charles can still sit comfortably on top of him and he isn’t about to ask, but Charles doesn’t complain when Erik tips him backwards, crawls on top of him, curls a hand around his ass.

 _I never thought we’d get here again,_ he doesn’t say, because he doesn’t want to remind Charles of all the reasons he’s angry.

 _I’m sorry,_ he doesn’t say, because if he went back he’d do everything exactly the same.

Instead he pushes into Charles’s grip and presses his lips to his throat and thinks _please let me live to see you again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did the entire fandom know that "Lehnsherr" literally meant "feudal lord" before I did? Because I learned that when I was trying to figure out an in-AU explanation for why he'd have picked that name, and I am still snickering about it.

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on [tumblr](runawaymarbles.tumblr.com)


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